


There’s a Seat Here alongside Me

by Ebyru



Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Dark Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Movie Spoilers, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, Series Spoilers, Slash, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 60,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2194995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something about Dean’s genetics has kept the vampirism cures from working. Sam tries to find a solution and discovers the absolute top in genetic research, Charles Xavier. Problem is: he’s all the way in England. Castiel joins them there to confirm what they’re told by Charles, and there they discover Dean isn’t as human as he once thought. Meanwhile, Stiles and Scott go looking for Jackson in England and find themselves in the Xavier household, needing some help. At the same time, Logan helps two young mutants escape Stryker, and accompanies them to a place he hopes is safe. If that isn’t enough for the world, two gods crash-land in the centre of all this with only one super soldier around to keep them from destroying cities. Charles Xavier has never had a busier year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hunters

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter focuses on one world and how they came across the other ones. The last chapter will be the prequel to my Marvel_bang, for anyone who ships Steve/Bucky. :)
> 
> Betas: [Rose Creighton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton) & [DaggerHale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DaggerHale/pseuds/DaggerHale)
> 
> Collab with [Rose Creighton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton) (who will have the podfic up later). :)  
> This was meant to be for Extreme Big Bang 2013, but we didn't finish in time. 
> 
> *Title from the lyrics of “Roads Untraveled” by Linkin Park.

There’s no time for self-pity or worrying about the fangs suddenly protruding through his lips. Dean is a Winchester: they hunt, they help people, and then they die. Maybe it’s his turn to die. He’s been in the business long enough --since he was five. It’s a good time for him to give in; just let all the monsters fall away and finally get a goddamn vacation.

 

Sam does _not_ share Dean’s opinion.

 

“Maybe we didn’t do it right? Maybe I messed up a step in translation.” Sam flips through John’s journal, Samuel’s, Bobby’s. He stays up all night searching through every word, every syllable, seeking that one line that will change his brother’s fate. He paces the Men of Letters’ headquarters in every direction, keeping one eye on Dean as he does so.

 

Dean, who twitches and feels hungry enough to sink his teeth into his own thigh, keeps his eyes downcast. Then the sun comes up, and Dean’s out with the first hint of light. 

 

\---

 

On the second floor, next to the exorcism room, Dean wakes to darkness and the sound of shackles and chains clinking as he tries to roll over, put into place to keep him locked down securely. He wiggles one hand free, but that’s the only leeway Sam’s given him – his handiwork is all over this. He should be thankful Sam didn’t lock him behind the library like Crowley a year ago.

 

“Just—” Dean sighs. “I’m okay with being ganked, Sammy. I don’t like the idea of dying, sure, but I don’t want to bite anyone either. You least of all.”

 

Sam’s hand stops, poised to flick to the next page in an old book from their library. He scowls full-force in Dean’s direction, pinning him with clear brown eyes that pose more of a threat than words could. “I’m not giving up, Dean. You’re the only one I have left.”

 

“Then you should understand!” snaps Dean. One of the chains break and Sam’s knee-jerk reaction is to reach around his back to click the safety of his gun. His shoulders hunched, he drops his hand. “What should I understand? That my big brother would rather—”

 

“—die than rip your throat out? You bet your ass, Sammy!” Dean stays lying down, struggling to control his breathing and the way his fingers itch to rip the rest of the chains off. He breathes out, “You won’t be alone.”

 

“If you die, I’ll only have Cas. And we both know he’s barely here anymore since he got his grace back.” Sam slams the journals down against the coffee table.

 

Dean’s eyes get glazed over; the hunger pushing into his subconscious like hypnosis. He won’t be able to hold it back for long, but he can sure as hell do something before then. “Cas!” he shouts, “get your feathery ass down here, pronto!”

 

*

 

“Shouldn’t we wait for Cas?” asked Sam. Dean turned his head to roll his eyes.

The vampire nest was here _now_ , but it wouldn’t remain that way for long if they knew Winchesters were on their asses.

“I’m going right,” said Dean. “You take left.”

Just like Benny’s home, this vampire coven acquired a rather large house – a mansion, really – to hide and sleep in. Most of the paintings Dean passed, his gun hand poised to fire, were priceless. He swore one of them even said Picasso at the bottom. That got his attention all right. They were running low on cash, and they’d be set for life with a jewel like that. The painting did in fact say Picasso in the bottom left corner upon closer inspection. It wasn’t much to look at, Dean observed, some colourful scribbles that he could create if he took LSD.

The painting was a wanted and unwanted distraction. He struggled to unhinge it, and tilting it to one side set off the alarm. He scrambled to get his gun he had set down on a nearby desk, rushing away from his jackpot-trap. He nearly made it back to Sam when a vampire jumped down from the ceiling and sunk its teeth into his shoulder. That earned it two shots to the head: one in each eye socket for either fang.

Sam appeared then, panting. He caught Dean right before his legs gave way, carrying him easily out the door. Luckily, it was still bright out; but even luckier was that Sam had time to hook up his side of explosives.

The mansion crumbled, taking with it the priceless Picasso that would have saved them. Dean groaned in despair.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” said Sam. “Cas? Cas, hurry, Dean needs help!”

 

*

Castiel’s fingers press to Dean’s forehead, but the hunger remains. He uses up more of his grace, his vessel sweating as he pushes through the barrier of the infection. Dean’s mind is in shambles, a darkened mess of vines and tangles, a barrier of his own making to keep himself from teetering off the edge and murdering the person closest to him: Sam. His humanity flickers in and out, suffering the infection like a bruise against pale skin. Even just this small glimpse almost causes Castiel to fall backwards with the strength of it. He’s killed vampires before, spoken to them, touched their minds; it never felt like _this_.

All the while, Dean doesn’t move and certainly doesn’t admit that Castiel’s fingers smell tasty enough to lick. He sighs like Castiel does, mirroring it.

Sam’s eyes widen, his eyes darting between them. “So?” he asks, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“He is still infected,” says Castiel, his brows creasing. “I do not understand how this is possible.” He disappears, the familiar flap of wings the only sound to break the deafening silence in the bunker.

“Thanks, Cas!” grits Dean, still chained to Bobby’s living room sofa like the monster he feels he’s become.

Sam eyes him warily. “How are you—”

“ _Hungry_ ,” groans Dean. He leaves out the part where he can feel his teeth pushing for space through his already crammed gums.

 

*

 

During the day, when Dean is at his weakest and constantly in a state of repose – or more like a food coma, minus the food – Sam tears the library apart, book by book, trying to find even a glimmer of hope in any of this collected information. The closest he came to a cure was in one of Bobby’s journals, but it was burnt in the fire. They never even found remains to work with - all that knowledge destroyed.

Sam turns to other hunters, asking for references and help. Most of them don’t know much, suggesting that he put his brother down before it’s too late. He ignores them and calls the next person on the list. When he runs out of working phone numbers, he starts his extensive internet search. Despite not wanting to endanger anyone else, Sam needs help and Castiel hasn’t answered any of his or Dean’s prayers. He emails a few researchers, a couple scientists, even some unorthodox doctors known for their open minds.

Then one morning, a professor is in the newspapers because of an accident, and Sam remembers hearing he was the best at genetic research. At the crack of dawn, he contacts Professor Charles Xavier and asks if he’s available for an unusual case.

 _“Indeed I am, in fact I welcome any cases that others have often shunned because of their odd nature,”_ he says in a soothing tone. _“When will you be able to arrive?”_

“I have to come to England?” Sam croaks. He knows how much Dean hates flying.

Charles makes a sound of assent. _“I’m sorry to say I’ve not been adapting to my accident very well. I still need some time. Is that all right?”_

“Uh, yeah.” Sam makes a quick calculation of the savings they found in the bunker. It should be more than enough for a short stay in England. “I’ll be on the first flight there.”

_“And I’ll be awaiting your arrival, Mr. Winchester.”_

 

*

It turns out to be easy to get Dean on the plane; they leave at the crack of dawn while he’s in his daylight haze. By the time he’s emerging from it, nine and half hours later, they’re already at the London City Airport. Charles is kind enough to meet them there, even in his wheelchair. There’s a tall, blond, younger man standing behind him with a sign that says “Winchesters.” He doesn’t seem happy about having to hold it.

Dean, on the other hand, starts sweating profusely nearly as soon as they exit the plane. Sam forgot about how many people would be travelling this time of year – summer break. There are too many easy targets around, so Sam grabs Dean by the shoulder to distract him. Dean snaps and growls at Sam while baring his teeth. Upon seeing that, Charles wheels forward, eyes focused on Dean. With one touch to his forehead, Dean calms instantly. He stands complacent at Sam’s side, eyes glazed over and a soft look on his face.

 

\---

 

They’ve been inside mansions before, but Sam decides there’s something almost surreal about Charles’s home. It might have something to do with the big blue scientist/genius who answers the door with the softest ‘Hi.’

As they step in, he introduces himself. “I’m Hank McCoy, a specialist in genetic research as well as aerospace engineering.” He puts out a furry hand for Sam to shake.

Sam is startled that his handshake is gentle (rather than being the bone-crushing hold he pictured would happen); his touch is oddly careful for someone so fierce-looking. He’s exactly how Sam imagines a scientist should be.

Hank leads Sam – and an unconscious Dean thrown over his shoulder – to their temporary rooms. After flopping Dean’s limp body down on his bed, Hank stands guard at the door, pointing to the room next to it. “That one’s yours,” he says, blinking his golden eyes.

Outside, Sam catches a glimpse of a young man walking through the grass, but he rushes off before Sam can get a good look at him. He shrugs it off and starts to unpack; if it’s someone who lives here, Charles will introduce them later. Sam barely has time to put his clothes inside the room when Charles starts waving him over, asking if they can go down into the library for a talk. Sam takes a few moments to appreciate the spotless flooring and priceless art spread across the halls.

“Your home is amazing,” he says with awe. His eyes dart around, taking in every big-name author in the library.

“Thank you.” Charles smiles, gesturing for Sam to sit across from him. “According to what I saw while briefly searching your brother’s mind, I gather he’s been infected by a vampire, yes?”

“How did you—”

“I’m a telepath. You see, I could read almost anyone’s mind, their memories, but also alter them if need be.” He crosses his hands in his lap. “Did I read correctly that you’ve somehow befriended an angel as well?”

“You mean Cas? Yeah. He’s kind of the only family we have left.” He clears his throat. _Aside from Kevin who I killed while Gadreel was inside of me,_ Sam thinks.

Unfortunately, it’s too loud for Charles to block out. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He leans forward to touch Sam’s shoulder. “But now we must concentrate on your current problem.”

“Can you help him? Put up a barrier maybe?”

“I’m afraid not. And even if I did, it wouldn’t hold for long. In fact, it won’t be necessary in a few days.”

Sam’s mouth falls open. “What—is he going to _die_?”

“No, no. nothing of the sort. He’ll be better than ever.” Charles ducks his head. “However, I fear Alex and Hank may need help until the infection has calmed.” He leans forward to ask, “Would it be all right for your angel to come and aid them?”

“I can’t really say if he’ll come. He usually answers Dean a lot faster than me.”

“There’s no harm in trying, Sam. You did say he was family,” says Charles with a reassuring smile.

Sam sighs, but closes his eyes to begin. “Castiel, if you can come, we really need your help. I promise it won’t be for too long.”

“Castiel, it’s about Dean. We need help.”

“Perhaps if I try?” Charles closes his eyes, touching his temple with two fingers. _Castiel, my name is Charles Xavier. Your friends are currently staying at my home in England. We need your assistance for a few days._

Sam waits for Charles to speak aloud, but he doesn’t. Then there’s an abrupt flap of wings and two thumping steps in front of the bookcase. Castiel’s brow is covered in sweat.

“I’m here,” he announces.

Charles and Sam look him up and down questioningly.

Castiel frowns, fixing the sleeves of his coat. “I couldn’t pinpoint your exact location as this is not my original grace. I went to the bunker first.”

Sam nods while Charles gives Castiel a sympathetic smile.

Clearing his throat, Castiel asks, “So why was I needed so urgently?”

 

*

 

During the night, when Hank and Alex are asleep, Castiel shows himself to Dean's room. Previously, he’d been hidden from him to keep him calm; his vessel, although now occupied by grace, still smells human. It contains enough blood to taunt Dean into a fit of mania. No one wants to have to chain him up again.

“How are you, Dean?” he asks, keeping to the far corner of the room.

Dean is sitting with his knees to his chest, breathing deeply. The shadows cloak him, but as he leans forward Castiel sees his eyes have changed to red. It means the infection is still perturbing him.

“I’ve been better,” he says with a discernible frown. He leans back, hiding from the moonlight coming in through his window. “I didn’t ever want to _be_ like this. I didn’t want Sam or you to have to deal with this.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” says Castiel. “It was mine for not having joined your attack on the nest.”

Dean groans, scratching at a patch of skin somewhere on his leg. “How’s he doing by the way?”

“He’s better now that we know the worst will pass.”

“What?” Dean’s voice is small, and rough from the previous fits of hunger.

“After this phase of unending craving, Charles believes your genetics will settle into something stable. You’ll be more like yourself.”

It’s barely a breath of a sound. “Really?” One red eye peeks out of the shadows.

“That’s why I’m staying here. To ensure no one is harmed until then.” Castiel sits on the floor, still across the room to keep his scent away from Dean. “I hope he is correct.”

 

\---

That morning, Sam returns from a jog with Hank, toweling his face. Outside of his bedroom, Castiel waits, sitting on the floor in a light doze. He touches Castiel’s shoulder. When his eyes open, Sam asks, “How is he?”

Castiel smiles and takes the hand that’s offered, standing up. “He’s calmer. I was even able to speak with him for a short while.”

“Good, that’s good,” says Sam, “I was starting to wonder if Charles was wrong.” He gestures for Castiel to follow him in.

He does, taking a seat on a wood chair near the window. “The more time passes, the more faith I have in Dean’s recovery. Charles is a very gifted, intelligent man. We should trust his abilities.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time he beats me at chess,” laughs Sam. He towels the side of his neck. “Hey, do you want to go grab some lunch later? I think Alex said he would take over for a few hours with Hank’s help.”

“I’d like that,” says Castiel, bowing his head when he notices Sam stripping out of his shirt.

 

*

 

Lunch turns into a heated discussion over grilled chicken salads on the difference between mutants and the supernatural. Sam says, “They’re not alike. Mutants are human, whereas me and Dean hunt _monsters_. They kill people and it’s usually just for pleasure.”

“Then how would you classify angels? We aren’t human, but we aren’t monsters either. And yet you and I have hunted my kind many times because of their hatred for humanity.”

Sam laughs, wiping his hands on a brown napkin.

Castiel asks, with a mouthful of chicken, “What?”

“I just know that if Dean was here he would have said: “They’re dicks.”

“A category all their own,” Castiel agrees with a smirk, shoving more food into his mouth. A blot of cesar dressing sticks to the corner of his mouth.

“Exactly,” says Sam, eyeing the mess. “But you fall into a different category.”

“Which is?” Castiel asks after a sip of his vanilla milkshake.

Sam wipes away the dressing, hiding the evidence in his fist. “Family. Someone we’d protect at all cost.”

Castiel smiles timidly, glancing down at the paper crumpled in Sam’s palm. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

By the end of the week, Sam is able to visit Dean in his room without having to worry about his throat being torn out. He sits on his bed, next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone threw all the juiciest burgers and pies to the other side of the planet. I’m tired, man. The fight is draining out of me. I guess that’s a good thing.”

“It’s probably a good thing,” agrees Sam. He looks around the room. A few of the dresser’s shelves have been ripped out. “Did you…?” He points to the pile of wood that _used to_ be furniture.

With a resigned sigh, Dean nods. “It wasn’t my best day. But, hey, even when I was human –” He pauses. _When_. He’s now officially one of the things he’d hunt, if he ever slipped up.

Sam bumps his arm with his shoulder. “Yeah, you’ve always had a temper,” he says. “You’re still you, Dean. I know you won’t kill - at least, not anyone innocent.”

“Yeah!” cheers Dean. “I can’t wait to see the expression on the next demon I gank. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Sam gets up from the edge of the bed. “I’m headed to a local place with Cas. You want me to pick you up a burger with fries?”

“Atta boy, Sammy! I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” he jokes.

Sam just shakes his head, heading out.

 

*

 

They don’t eat in the restaurant; Castiel tells Sam he’d rather eat at the mansion. They go upstairs to Sam’s room, passing by Dean’s to hand Hank the paper bag since he’s manning the door this time.

“It’s a burger with fries,” whispers Sam. “I hope this doesn’t trigger his blood urges again.”

Hank takes it, opening it to sniff inside. “I think this could trigger anyone’s carnivorous ways.”

Sam’s eyes widen; he glances over at Castiel.

“I was kidding,” says Hank scratching at his nape. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“I will be able to interfere if it does produce some type of reversing effect,” adds Castiel. “Let’s go into your room, Sam.” He grabs his hand, leading him in.

Sam stutters out, “Oh – oh, okay.” His face is heated.

 

\---

 

Castiel eats only slightly less disgustingly than Dean; there’s fry grease everywhere, including on his white dress shirt where he’s wiped his hands multiple times. Every time he smears his hands across the cotton, it becomes more sticky and translucent. It’s not Sam’s fault that he’s staring when Castiel finally just decides to open the shirt and drape it across his lap. With his burger in his lap, atop the shirt, Castiel is now officially shirtless. “I should have remembered napkins,” he grumbles to himself.

“I’m pretty sure Charles might have some,” laughs Sam, guiltily taking in the lean definition of Castiel’s abdomen.

Castiel stops mid-chew, turning his gaze to Sam. He chews slower. “I think I’ve been so worried about Dean and the red meat that I’ve forgotten all human logic.”

“You can just zap away all the dirt from your clothes anyway, right?” asks Sam, poking the last of his salad with his fork.

Castiel tilts his head, still chewing the same bite. There’s a gob of ketchup at the corner of his mouth this time; Sam can’t stop staring at it. “I haven’t been up to my usual because, as I said, this is not _my_ grace.”

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, about that: you can use another angel’s grace?”

“It was just an attempt at freeing myself that had surprisingly pleasing results.” He shoves three fries into his mouth. “Well, at the time. Any results are pleasant if your chest is cut in four.”

The three of them are always at war, whether they want to admit it or not. Castiel with his siblings, his family; Dean with himself; and Sam with himself as well as Dean. The circumstances don’t change the fact that an angel – working with Dean – killed Kevin with Sam’s body. He will always have that nagging at the back of his head.

“You’ve suddenly gone quiet,” says Castiel, “Did I ruin the mood or something?” He frowns. “I think that’s the right expression…”

“No, no. I was just thinking about this past year.” He looks at Castiel’s mouth, and surely enough the ketchup is still there. “You’ve got a bit of—”

Castiel licks the wrong side.

“I mean here,” he says, “let me.”

Sam scoops it off with his thumb, then remembers they didn’t bring any napkins back. He looks around his bedroom, hoping there might be a dirty shirt or something.

“Use mine,” says Castiel.

Sam rubs his thumb across the fabric in his lap. Castiel munches on the rest of his fries, unfazed.

“Uh, thanks,” mutters Sam. _Did you just read my mind?_

“I may have,” he says with a playful grin.

“So you knew what I was thinking earlier?” asks Sam, gesturing at the whole lap-shirt-tray going on.

“Part of why I felt comfortable to remove my shirt is because of thoughts you’ve had in the past about my body, and especially my eyes,” explains Castiel. He stops eating and zaps everything on his lap away, including his shirt. “My vessel is attractive to you. I don’t mind if you look.”

Sam’s eyes drag unconsciously down his chest. He licks his lips. “Cas—”

His salad disappears as Castiel leans forward. “Yes, Sam? Am I wrong? Your mind and your heart are both racing as we speak.” He touches Sam’s hand. “You even let me hold your hand earlier and didn’t object.”

 _I hate you a little right now,_ thinks Sam, his eyes turning dark.

“As long as you kiss me, I don’t mind,” whispers Castiel, moving forward. He presses one hand to Sam’s thigh, the other around the back of his neck.

“But—” _What about Dean?_

“I’ve waited long enough for him to acknowledge my affection for him,” growls Castiel, sidling onto Sam’s lap for a kiss. His fingers rake the nape of Sam’s neck, tangling in his hair. “You want me now, and I want you. You’re attractive and I’d like to experience pleasure along with you.”

“Yes,” moans Sam, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist. He keeps him close like that, tasting every second of enjoyment he had with his burger and fries, sucking the tang of ketchup from his lips and tongue. There’s an ocean between them and Dean now; he’s not in his thoughts; he’s out of sight, out of mind. This isn’t about _him_ , it’s about _them_. About _Castiel_ and the way he whimpers every time Sam digs his fingers into his hips to thrust up against his grinding down.

And Sam wants desperately to take him apart.

 

*

 

_“So you know….what I was thinking earlier?”_

Dean stops chewing; he didn’t realize his hearing had improved this much. He could probably hear Sam’s heart beat – if he pressed his ear to the wall. But he wouldn’t because that’s both creepy and unnecessary. But mostly creepy.

_“Part of why I felt comfortable to remove my shirt is because of thoughts you’ve had in the past about my body, and especially my eyes. My vessel is pleasing for you. I don’t mind if you look.”_

He drops his burger into the paper bag. Even though Castiel has only had one sexual experience, he doesn’t want to be privy to his second one. And why does it have to be the room beside his. He sighs up at the ceiling, wishing on every dead star that Castiel zaps them elsewhere.

_“Cas—”_

Sex sound, that’s a sex sound. Dean groans and nudges his bag of food under the bed, covering his ears. His super-hearing is now a goddamn curse if there ever was one.

 _“Yes, Sam? Am I wrong? Your mind and your heart are both racing as we speak._ _You even let me hold your hand earlier and didn’t object.”_

What are they? A bunch of horny teenagers? Dean’s throat constricts when he hears the bed springs creak; he shuffles into the corner of the room, where he feels safe from hurting anyone. He brings his knees up to his chest, a burn of lava climbing his oesophagus with every moan and whimper in the next room over. Let it be done, just let it be over. Let them stop. _Please_ stop. He squeezes his eyes shut, humming the first song that pops into his head to drown them out.

 

 _Generals gathered in their masses_  
Just like witches at black masses  
Evil minds that plot destruction  
Sorcerers of death's construction

Dean feels his jaw ache, his eyes burn red, his fingers yearning to tear at something, and he knows he’s too close to that knife-edge he was on for so long. He holds his breath until his skin matches his eyes.

The door opens slowly. “You want to go to another room?” asks Hank. “They’re kind of, you know. And if I can hear, you probably can too.”

“Jesus, yes!” Dean scurries up and towards him. “Anywhere is better than here.”

 

*

 

Charles eyes Dean with a concerned twist to his mouth. “Would you like something to eat? I have quite a few options.”

They’re in his library with Hank waiting outside - just in case.

Just the thought of eating makes Dean’s guilt jump to the surface of his skin like an itch. He averts his eyes, scraping at his elbow. “No, I’m fine.” He glances around the room; anywhere but at Charles who can read people faster than he blinks.

He nods, wheeling forward. “May I?” He wiggles his fingers. “I’d like to check the progression of the infection. Nothing else,” he says.

“Nothing else?”

“I give you my word.”

Dean narrows his eyes, then shrugs a shoulder. “Okay, go for it. Can’t be any worse than it was.”

Charles presses both thumbs to Dean’s temple, the rest of his fingers curling softly around the back of his head. He closes his eyes so Dean does too.

Once inside, Dean can see everything Charles can.

There’s a string of red climbing steadily up his spine, his veins, his limbs, his mind and anywhere else that matters. He’s a hunter not a doctor; he doesn’t know the rest of the places that flash behind his eyes. One thing he does know is that there’s a pinch when Charles plucks at something, and his eyes suddenly stop burning.

When he opens his eyes, Charles is smiling. “Back to your usual green,” he tells him.

Dean’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious? No more Hannibal Lecter red?”

“No, not unless you drink blood – which we both know will kick-start the infection again.” He pats his arm gently. “Dean, I have the pleasure of telling you it is almost 100% out of your system. Tomorrow you’ll be free to roam the grounds as you wish.”

“Oh, man,” says Dean. “I wish I could be happy about this, but it just sounds too good to be true. Is there a catch or something?”

“Stay away from blood, that’s all. The strength, speed and hearing you would have as a vampire still remains as well.” He laughs, “But I doubt in your line of work that is unwelcome.”

“So I’m still kind of a monster?” asks Dean with a frown. “There’s no way to get the rest out?”

“Not without harming you.” His voice softens to add, “Dean, sometimes things aren’t meant to be changed. You are different now, but you’re still yourself. Never doubt who you are.”

“What does this make me? A vampire half-breed? The next Blade?”

“A mutant,” says Charles with a proud smile. “Nothing too shameful in your opinion, I hope?”

Dean smiles briefly, looking down at his hands. He balls them into fists then opens them. He already feels stronger. “Guess not.”

 

*

 

Back in his room – with Sam gone out for a run, and Castiel who knows where – Dean sits on the edge of his bed. He looks out the window, seeing the light slip behind the trees as a breeze rolls in. He closes his eyes to feel it with his new senses.

The wind chills his fingertips, but he’s colder than he used to be. The sunlight stings in sensitive areas, where skin isn’t as thick. It’ll probably pass soon if Charles is right. As soon as the clouds shield the last of the sunlight, a growl starts to rumble its way out of Dean’s throat.

“You okay in there?” asks Hank, his voice muffled through the door.

The growl sharpens like pinpricks, scratching its way out of his spine. The skin aches like a raw burn being picked at; anything he tries to think of gets swallowed by the thought of his little brother and his best friend getting closer and more intimate while he’s been suffering through a myriad of symptoms. The cold sweat that crawls its way down his spine makes him leap up from the bed; he lands on the ceiling, in the exact position of the vampire that bite him in the first place.

He snarls and scratches at the ceiling until he tumbles back down to the floor. That gets Hank’s attention.

Opening the door, Hank asks, “Are you ok—”

Dean shakes his head erratically, dragging his elongating nails against the floorboards. Hank carefully starts stepping forward, his hands outstretched. Instead of seeing him with blue fur, Dean only sees red. His blood-coloured eyes come back for one final appearance. He rushes at the intruder like a stampeding bull, throwing up wood chips as he goes. Then he’s in the hall, and Hank is screaming as he falls from the open window.

“Oomph!” says Alex as Hank lands on him from above.

Dean jumps out the same way to avoid being stopped by Charles and his telepathic powers. He rushes off through the garden.

 

*

 

Somehow, Dean makes it into the heart of a town. The smell of beer and sweat leads him to a pub with rowdy strangers in flesh-coloured bows. They’ve stopped being human to him; they’re pieces of meat wrapped in convenient skin packaging. They smell of musk and ignorance, and especially blood – and Dean wants to drain every last one of them until there isn’t an eye to look upon him and tell him what he is or isn’t. He’s a monster; he knows that. If he wasn’t so angry, he would gank himself and confirm it.

He knows his fangs are showing when a kid – one who is definitely too young to be in a pub – starts whispering to his equally underage friend about the ‘weird dude in the corner.’ The kid is barely out of high school, if that, and he smells like a couple of things: blood and purity. The kind of purity you can only find in small towns, good people – like the ones Dean usually saves, not the noisy, burly men in here chanting over their favourite sports teams.

Dean covers his mouth to keep his fangs from being so obvious, but it doesn’t stop his eyes from changing to red. The dark haired boy next to innocent-looking one snarls and pushes through the crowd, right in his direction. His eyes flash red, too. The kind of shade that represents roses, tomatoes and flushed cheeks. Not the bloody, lust-filled red that Dean possesses in the veins of his inhuman skin.

It doesn’t stop Dean from snarling back; he’s still pissed after all, and the kid looks like he’s eager for a good fight.

“Outside,” growls the dark haired kid. Too many teeth get in the way of his words. His innocent friend trails behind him, his brow a harsh line of judgment.

Dean would recognize that look anywhere. He’s usually the one sporting it. He snaps, grabs the closest beer mug and smashes it against the wood of the bar. Everyone around him shouts, but they jump in, throwing mugs and beer, plastic cups and screaming at the top of their lungs. He has one of the bigger men in a headlock when the dark haired kid digs claws into his spine, spitting, “I said _outside_. _Now_.”

The only reason he goes is because he wants to finish him quick and go back inside. That’s not how it happens.

“What are you?” he asks.

Dean scoffs. It’s typical; he’s been human most his life, and the first person he meets after being bitten has to accuse him of being a monster. Too bad he’s not wrong. “A vampire hybrid—thing.” He crosses his arms, squinting at the two brats where they block him in a narrow laneway. He could scale the wall and get up on the roof if he really wanted, but he’s curious about what they’re going to say next.

“Vampire?” squawks the paler kid. “There are vampires now? I thought Beacon Hills had a full set of supernatural thingamabobs, but I guess we were missing the ultra-rare-vampire-hybrid card.” He throws his hands in the air. “What’s next, _angels_?”

That makes Dean snort. “I can tell you kids aren’t dangerous, so how ‘bout we just call it a day. We can go our separate ways and never see each other again.”

“Except you were close to killing inside that bar, dude. You’re dangerous,” says the tanned kid. “I can’t let you leave if you plan to hurt someone.”

“ _You_ can’t stop me if I plan to hurt someone,” warns Dean, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve been in the killing business for a long, long time, buddy. Too bad you don’t know the Winchester name.”

He squints, and the innocent kid flails behind him. He drags him back and whispers _ohmygod shitshitshit_ a few times before telling him a long string of words that seems never-ending.

They turn back to Dean, but their mood seems to have changed. “I’m Scott,” says the dark haired one. “This is my friend Stiles.” He crosses his arms, mirroring Dean’s position. “He told me you saved the world a while back—”

“A few times actually,” Dean corrects. “But, hey, who’s counting?”

“So why are you trying to kill innocent people now?” says Scott.

“Who says they’re innocent? Who says they’ll be missed?” Even as the words are out, they taste sour and ugly against the buds of his tongue. Bitter like a regret he’s forcing himself to swallow because it’s gone on too long already.

“You’re better than this,” Stiles says, stepping up to Scott’s side. “I can tell you’re Dean Winchester from what I read, and if you are him, you’re the best hunter there is. You have some of the best judgment. You’re one of the best people on the planet – er, were one of the best.”

Scott shakes his head, wincing.

“Anyways,” says Stiles, “you can be the best vampire-hybrid now. You can be someone who doesn’t kill innocent humans just because they deserve it. Your reputation can remain what it was.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Dean, beginning to walk past them. “I’m going to leave now if you don’t mind. I’m done chatting.”

“Promise you’ll stay the guy who inspired me to help my werewolf friends,” says Stiles.

The rest sounded rehearsed, practiced, clichéd and a bit over-dramatic. But _that_ , that sounded genuine. For some reason, knowing there’s a skinny, naïve kid out there with werewolf friends (like Scott; he could smell him a mile away) who looks up to him, gets him thinking. He falters on his way past, almost out of the lane-way. He nods, and he hopes they see it, because they’ve taught him something: you’re not as invisible as you think.

Scott stops him just as he’s almost gone. “Do you know where the Xavier mansion is? We have a friend staying there. We won’t bother you again if you can lead us there.”

The same way they choose to trust him with directions, he trusts Scott and his ability to control his transformations. Besides, it would be hypocritical with everything that’s been happening. It took him Castiel, Meg and Benny to finally notice the good side of supernatural beings – something Sam’s been trying to teach him all along.

“You’re in luck,” says Dean. “That’s just where I’ve been crashing.”

 

*

 

It’s not like he’s spying; his peripheral vision is doing all the work for him. They’re led by Hank to this room way in the back, somewhere Charles didn’t even say anyone was staying. Dean doesn’t worry about that, though; he goes straight for Sam’s room, hoping Castiel will be there with him to get it over and done with.

It’s about a week later; after he admitted – to himself mostly – that he was being unreasonable, especially since he’s never explicitly stated the feelings he has for Castiel. Sam is welcome to date him and make him happy, if that’s what they both want. At least, that’s what he sees from the way they always work in the library and whisper and sometimes graze each other’s hand while flipping through old, dusty books in Charles’ study.

There are more and more teenagers gathering at the mansion, enough that Dean knows they should be moving on with their lives. He hasn’t craved blood in days; even went back to his pie and cheap liquor -- the brown stuff that Bobby used to buy. He didn’t want to spoil himself with Charles’ collection of spirits that he couldn’t afford back in the States.

On the final night, when Dean admits he’s been a little “out of it,” Sam gives him the warmest hug in years. A tight, unexpected squeeze that knocks the wind out of him; he even swears his ribs squeal in protest for a second. That’s, of course, the moment Castiel takes to disappear and go… wherever he goes – could be ice fishing for all Dean knows.

“What’s this about?” asks Dean, shoving Sam away when he starts to crush his bones.

“Just glad you’re back to normal,” says Sam. He shuffles from one foot to the other. “So, you ready to go back on the road? Do some hunting?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Dean. “You bet.” He stretches his back; hears something pop that he hopes his “mutation” can heal later on. “I just wish I could fly like all those cool movie vamps so I don’t have to get back on that metal shoebox you call a plane.”

“Good thing Cas is with us this time then, right?” Sam grins.

Dean’s brow shoots up to the ceiling. “You don’t expect – c’mon, Sammy, you know what that does to my stomach! Makes it all flip-floppy worse than that taco place we found in Kansas City back in ’05.”

A wing-flap sound interrupts Sam’s laughter. “I will do my best to be gentle,” teases Castiel.

“Har-har, you brainy assholes,” grumbles Dean.

 

 

*

 

Call him cowardly, but he can’t say it until Castiel has a hand on his shoulder and one on Sam’s – the night they’re packed and ready to go back to the bunker. “I, uh, just want you two to know that I support – _you know_ , whatever’s going on between you.” His expression feels as tight as three facelifts; all the emotion spiel just isn’t his thing and never will be.

“Gee, Dean, that didn’t sound forced at all,” says Sam with a growing smile. “But thanks. Right, Cas?”

“Yes, I agree. Though your support was not required,” says Castiel.

“It should be! He’s my baby brother, and you’re –” He’s what? He’s not a virgin anymore. He’s not inexperienced or human anymore. He’s not unkind, cruel, ruthless, power-hungry or full of Leviathans. He’s not bonkers; he picked up all his marbles (sometime while he started collecting bees). He’s just… _Cas_ now -- the version that’s decent and balanced.

“I’m what, Dean?”

“Yeah, Dean. What is he?” Sam is smirking so wide his dimples must be aching from it.

“My best friend!” blurts Dean. “Now stop your teasing, and let’s beat it. All these teenagers are clogging my beautiful pores.”

 

 

*

 

The first hunt they get when they arrive on US soil is a vampire gone blood-crazed; a newbie, just turned bloodsucker with a chip on his shoulder the size of Alaska. Needless to say, Sam doesn’t want to send Dean in since the subject is still a touchy one.

“You can look for the next case while me and Cas do this one,” says Sam.

“Nah, I’m fine. Besides, I’m not a vampire, I’m a mutant. Remember?” Dean kicks his feet off the wooden table, wishing not for the first time that he didn’t feel Sam’s worry sinking into his skin like oil. “I need to be out and do something. Don’t worry, Sammy.”

As if attracted to awkward situations, Castiel chooses that time to flutter in. “I agree with Dean, Sam. It would do well to see if he has completely overcome his more aggressive urges before we discover more difficult cases.”

“Thanks, Cas,” says Dean, patting him on the back. “What he said.”

 

\---

 

They find the vamp-on-the-loose in a dank, smelly lane-way, checking out a girl across the street as she undresses in front of her window. The kid is about eighteen; previously homeless from the length and colour (and odour) of his toenails. (Before you ask _why_ – it’s because Dean’s senses are sharper now, and he glimpsed them when the foot came flying from below, towards his face. That’s all. It’s not like he has a foot fetish or anything.) Asides from his poor hygiene, the kid doesn’t stand a chance.

Sam, of course being the bleeding heart that he is, tries to talk him out of his villainous ways; even goes as far as using him and Dean as examples. It’s not a big surprise when Castiel steps up as a past villain either.

Too bad the kid is a kid, and a bratty one at that. When he reaches to rip out Sam’s jugular, Dean somehow zooms over to him, flips him in the air, and smashes his face against the remains of a broken beer bottle. His face takes most of the damage.

“I wouldn’t aim your claws or teeth at my little brother, man. Quickest way to die in my book,” growls Dean, pressing his knee into the kid’s lower back. “Now are you gonna play nice or am I going to have to put you down?”

He snaps at Dean’s fingers – the ones curled in the back of brown hair, tugging his face sideways – and something goes off in his brain. He feigns letting the kid up, but then smashes him right back down. It just so happens the broken beer bottle punctures his eye instead of his cheek this time.

“Pretty sure vampires can’t feed if they’ve got no fangs. Should I take yours out, kid?” he asks as his own start to elongate, prodding the skin behind the kid’s ear. “I’d love to get my hands dirty after being on vacation so long.”

“No! No, man! I like my teeth and my eyes how they are!” says the kid.

When Dean leans in closer, he shivers and ducks his face against the glass; anything to avoid more threats apparently. “Good, you got the message.” He pats the kid’s head. “We’ll be watching to make sure you stay obedient. By the way, no spying on girls. That’s just creepy.”

Sam flips the blade and stashes it in his jean pocket. “Guess you didn’t really need me as backup.”

“I told you I was good,” says Dean, winking.

Castiel stares, blinking a few times. His mouth hangs slightly open.

Dean’s brow furrows as he asks, “What? Did he get me somewhere?” He pats himself down, looking for slices, coming up empty.

“That was…impressive,” says Castiel. He disappears when his tongue clicks against the dryness of his bottom lip, a flutter of wings leading the way.

“What was _that_ about? I thought I did good,” says Dean.

“You did,” says Sam. He rubs his forehead, walking out of the lane and leaving Dean to sputter behind him.

“What? What did I do?” shouts Dean.

“Nothing!” Sam calls back, slamming the door of the Impala. “Hurry up and get in before I drive off without you.”

 

*

 

There’s an acidic flavour to the air every time Dean steps into the room. At first, he assumes it’s himself; that maybe he smells his own odour – his otherness – but he doesn’t smell it when he’s alone or just around Castiel. It happens when he, Sam and Castiel are all in the same room together. Through process of elimination, which Dean is very good at in spite of appearances, he realizes the smell is coming off of Sam.

Somewhere between leaving the mansion and going on hunts again, Sam became bitter – literally. He smells sourer the longer Dean is in a room with him; though, only if Castiel is around, too.

It’s tolerable at first, but once Sam starts ignoring him and avoiding eye contact, Dean’s had enough.

 

*

 

“Tell me: are you so freakin’ possessive of your boyfriend that I can’t even _speak_ to him in front of you?” snaps Dean. He throws his leather jacket atop the books Sam’s been looking through for the past half hour. It’s not like the zombie they’re hunting can run away or anything; it can wait until they have a talk.

“What are you talking about?” Sam picks up Dean’s jacket and lets it fall on the floor. He knows how much Dean loves this one specifically, too.

“This! You’re being a bitch! You just threw my jacket on the floor like a moody teenager,” says Dean.

“It was in my way,” says Sam, flipping to the next page. “Are you gonna help me at all? It’s not like we come across The Walking Dead every week.”

“Yeah,” laughs Dean snidely, “how ‘bout no? You tell me what’s got your big boy panties in a twist and maybe–” He puts his hands down on the open book, covering the pages. “—I’ll consider it.”

“Jesus, Dean,” says Sam. “Get over yourself! Just because he’s in love with you doesn’t mean he can’t love me just as much!” Sam’s eyes get disturbingly wide, and he stands up, stiff. His hands shake when he pulls the book from Dean’s grip, closing it and tucking it under his arm. He falters as he says, “I’ll be in my room.”

Dean stands there with his hands pressed flat to the surface of the table, uselessly, while his mind reels and reels, and spins out of control. Castiel loves him - is _in love_ with him – and he had no idea. And Sam – Sam knew all along. The taste of regret fills the room this time; all those times he could have moved that step closer and just kissed him. But they’ve both been hesitant.

Sam’s different in that regard; he lets his heart lead him into the dark, whereas Castiel and Dean didn’t even _try_ to get that far.

 

*

 

Castiel smells like honey again, probably something to do with the bees he visits from time to time. It’s a nice change from the pungent bitterness seeping out of Sam. Not that he’s had a chance to smell him lately; he refuses to spend more than five minutes in any room with Dean. It’s a pleasure, really, and makes it so damn easy to investigate cases.

The moment Sam hears a flutter though, he rushes out to greet Castiel – even going as far as pulling him aside and kissing him where he thinks Dean can’t see (but can hear, thanks to his super-hearing). Once again, _joy_. Castiel shuffles out of the embrace and back into sight, out in the middle of the bunker where all the books are lined up and open.

“I heard your call,” he says to Dean, which is going to no doubt rub Sam in five different, and very wrong, ways.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, uh, it was for the both of us.” He gestures to Sam. “This zombie thing going on kind of has us stumped. Think you can help?”

Castiel is in the middle of nodding when Sam jumps in with, “But you don’t have to if you’re busy in Heaven with the angels. I know how important your work is.”

“It’s no trouble,” says Castiel, his brows creasing. He touches the inside of Sam’s wrist. “What is the matter? You seem upset.”

“I’m not,” says Sam. He tugs his wrist away, hiding his arms behind his back. “Just don’t want to stretch you too thin.” He raises an eyebrow to indicate some secret information they’re sharing. That Dean has no idea about.

“What’s going on?” asks Dean, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” they both answer.

“Uh-huh. Spill, now,” he says to them.

“I’ll return later when I’ve gathered the information you require,” says Castiel. He disappears, but the flap of his wings doesn’t come. He’s gone in complete silence.

“What was that about?” snaps Dean.

Sam grumbles, “Nothing,” as he storms out of the library and down the hall to his room.

 

*

 

Eventually, Castiel returns with the promised information. That is, after Dean and Sam’s relationship is so strained that they both wish Sam was back on demon blood - it was easier to live with - but no such luck.

There’s a looming silence in the bunker that’s only broken by the sound of Castiel dropping in – literally. No soft flutter or magical disappearance this time; he falls in through the centre of the bunker, a layer of sweat collecting at his brow. Sam rushes to hold him up, but he already has a firm grip on the back of the wooden chair. Normally the first to rush in, Dean is wary this time. He stands back and watches as his best friend collapses into sitting. Sam hovers at his side, touching his face, checking his pulse.

“I’m all right, Sam, thank you.” He holds his head, closing his eyes. “I believe this stolen grace has reached its limit.”

“What does _that_ mean? You’re human again?” asks Dean, leaning against the bookshelf.

Sam throws him a scathing look then kneels down between Castiel’s legs. “You need to rest, that’s all. Stay here as long as you need.”

“No. I mean, yes, but it won’t pass this time.” He touches one of Sam’s hands atop his knee. “If you have a spare bedroom, I’d like to use it permanently.”

 

*

 

In spite of the previous weeks of silence, Sam and Dean start speaking again the next day. Actually, that same night is when it all goes to hell.

Castiel wakes in a cold sweat, and Sam rushes to him first – but not before telling Dean to go get a warm cloth. For anything else in their lives, supplies or even the zombie hunt they put on hold for a bit, Sam is like a figment of Dean’s imagination. He’s there, but he’s not really willing to be seen. He’s not being himself because Castiel is back, but he’s also not himself.

A couple hours later, with an extra blanket tucked under his chin, Castiel’s shaking kicks in. he has vivid images of his grace being ripped from his vessel. “It’s like removing a human’s spine,” he groans between trembles and aches. His eyes are screwed shut.

By the break of dawn, Castiel’s eyes are red-rimmed, so are Sam and Dean’s. He finally falls asleep.

They wisp past each other, taking shifts watching over him. Sam doesn’t speak except to say, “I’ll get him some water” or “I’ll be back in a couple hours.” They’ve become coworkers or something worse – like roommates.

Day three is when they notice Castiel is more bones than fat, even more than skin. He’s fading away and fast – much faster than any born-human would. He hasn’t been able to eat; everything that touches his tongue tastes like ash and brimstone. Everything else makes him choke and sputter until he’s red from exertion. They stick to giving him liquids after that time he stops breathing for ten seconds. He’s a bag of air, really, just waiting to empty or be punctured.

Sam cuts Dean’s shifts down to half, taking all the time he can with Castiel. Meanwhile, Dean grits his teeth through it, and tries not to snap as Sam sends him on errand after empty errand, continuously keeping them apart.

 

\---

 

When he returns with canned soups and vitamin water, there are tears flowing from Castiel’s eyes as he wheezes through three coughing fits in a row because he ate a cracker. The moment it calms down, he spits blood out onto the clean white blanket Sam just made Dean bring in.

This entire time – even before this – Sam has kept his back to Dean, not wanting to look at him and start another argument about trust and letting go. It’s been a long time since he’s looked up at Dean like he is now, eyes watering, uncertain and so very small. All it takes is that red splatter that they both see for their feud to seem pointless.

“I – I don’t know how to help him,” mutters Sam, his hair falling into his eyes. He stands up from the bed, walking to stand next to Dean. His back is to Castiel now.

Neither does Dean, but he can’t admit that, not now. “You’re just tired. Let me take over for a while. Maybe try to get that zombie before it bites someone else and starts an epidemic of zombie dicks.”

He doesn’t expect Sam to go through with a hunt; with their places switched, he’d be too distracted.

 

*

 

Predictably, Sam goes for a jog. He returns with a salad shake and a burger for Dean. They sit on the floor outside of Castiel’s room, just in case he has another coughing fit and…Well.

“Thanks,” mumbles Dean. The burger is warm, cheesy and greasy. He can’t taste a thing over the bile in the back of his throat though. “This is good.” The fries are crisp and golden, just the way he likes them. They taste like Styrofoam.

“You’re welcome,” says Sam. He stabs some salad onto his fork and chews it quietly. “I needed some air.”

“I know,” says Dean. _What do we do now_ , he wants to ask. It’s too soon, or maybe too late, for that question right now.

“He’s in love with you,” Sam says. His eyes are downcast. “Even now, I can tell.” There’s a resigned tone to his words; when he looks up, his gaze is softer. “You should be in there with him.”

“But you and him–”

“It wasn’t really serious. Not like you two,” says Sam. “I’ll be here if you need me. Go see him.” He nudges Dean’s knee with his shoe, stretching his long legs out afterwards.

“What do I tell him?” murmurs Dean, crumpling up his paper bag of tasteless food.

How can Sam be so sure that he feels that way? They’ve been through a lot, sure, but when did it become more? When did fighting wars together turn into falling in love? For him, he knew sometime in Purgatory that he could never let go of Castiel. It scared him to death. But Castiel isn’t – wasn’t human at the time.

Sam laughs softly. “You two have your own language, use it.”

 

\---

 

The blankets are thrown on the floor and Castiel is dry heaving the last of his fluids. His body is hunched over, each wheeze rippling down his spine with nothing to give up to the pull in his gut. Dean doesn’t walk, he runs to his side. Pressing a hand to his back soothes the next rough cough before it’s out, and he helps Castiel climb comfortably onto his bed. Another heave wracks his body, but nothing comes out, even with his body trying its damnedest. Dean strokes him through the last of it, pushing his hair away from his face wiping his mouth with a warm cloth.

“I’m here,” whispers Dean, stroking his back. “I’m here, buddy. I’ll be here for you.”

Castiel’s throat constricts, his eyes shut tight against the pain. “I know,” he grinds out. “I trust you for that reason.” As he grabs Dean’s hand, he passes out. Carefully, Dean covers him with his blanket and sets a glass of water on his bedside.

Somewhere between Castiel trying to expel his own lungs and falling asleep, there was some kind of confession. That’s the only reason it takes Dean half a second longer to catch him before he rolls off the bed. He sets him back in place, blocking him off with pillows. He looks oddly peaceful now that he’s unconscious – as morbid as it sounds.

Not that it stops Dean from whispering, “I love you, Cas.”

 

\---

 

As Dean is pulling his cellphone out of his pocket to turn the volume off, it rings. He groans and rushes to the far end of the room with it.

_“Dean Winchester? My name is Natasha. I have someone here who would like to speak with you.”_

“Is this a prank call?” There’s shuffling on the other end, and then someone else takes the phone.

_“Hi Dean. It’s that werewolf you met in England. I could really use your help.”_

“Scott? Worst timing, kid,” snaps Dean.

 _“What do you mean? What happened?”_ The worst part is that he sounds genuinely concerned, but Dean isn’t in the mood for chit-chat.

“I’m kind of in the middle of trying to make sure my best friend doesn’t die,” he whispers, when he notices Castiel moaning in his sleep.

_“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.”_

Dean bites into his lip to keep his eyes from watering. “Yeah, so if that’s why you were calling – he’s got no powers.”

_“Is there anything I can do to help? I’m sure Charles –”_

“No thanks,” says Dean. “Take care of yourself. I hope you find someone who can help you.”

He hangs up and sits back in the chair at Castiel’s bedside. “Sorry, Cas. I won’t answer any more phone calls. Gotta keep my eyes only on you.” He holds Castiel’s clammy hand up to his mouth, pressing his fingers into the knuckles that became bonier in the past week. Dean isn’t sentimental in the traditional sense, but he makes a cross over his heart, hoping Castiel’s father can keep him alive – just one more time. “I promise I’ll do my best to watch him,” he says, bowing his head. “J-just help me this last time.”

 

*

 

A short lifetime later – after Dean’s sure he’s gained a hundred or so white hairs – Castiel wakes up. His first word is a gruff “Dean.” The usual.

“Yeah, Cas, I’m here.” He holds Castiel’s hand, trying not to squeeze too tight in spite of his relief. It’s been at least four hours, and he was stiff as a board the entire time. Dean fought to stay awake, but Sam helped by bringing in coffee for him about three hours ago. They nodded at each other with a slight smile. “How’re you feeling?” he asks Castiel.

“Not on the verge of death,” admits Castiel. He squeezes Dean’s hand. “Thank you for remaining by my side.”

“You’d do the same for me,” says Dean. He presses his forehead to Castiel’s hand, sighing with relief. “What’s going on, man? Did that other angel’s grace poison you or something?”

“Well, in a way, yes.” Castiel sits up slowly, making sure to keep Dean’s hand in his own. “But I also overused it, knowing there would be consequences.”

“Shit,” mutters Dean, “I knew it was a mistake to have you try and help with my vampire problem.”

Castiel shakes his head, clearing his throat. “I helped Charles and Henry before we left the mansion. It was…excessive on my part.” He glances away, trying to remove his hand too.

“What? Did you become a faith healer and make him walk again or something?” asks Dean, laughing. He reaches for Castiel’s hand, but Castiel won’t let him.

There’s tightness in Castiel’s smile as he slips his arms underneath the blanket.

Dean sputters, grabbing Castiel’s shoulder. “You didn’t! Why would you do that?”

“He helped return someone beloved to me,” snaps Castiel, shaking Dean’s hold on him. “I couldn’t let the man I love become something he believed was the scum of the earth.”

That stops the next protest Dean was going to say. “The man you love— _oh_.” He sits back in his chair, rubbing a hand nervously throw his growing stubble. “I – I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” whispers Castiel, looking down.

“I get it, in that case.” He touches Castiel’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I’d do the same thing.”

Castiel lets his eyes close, humming. “Thank you.”

“For what?” asks Dean, leaning in to hear as Castiel speaks lower. His knees bang against the side of the bed.

“For loving me,” whispers Castiel, placing his hand atop of Dean’s on his cheek. “I heard your prayer for me, and I am grateful.” His blue eyes soften with moisture at the edges as Dean’s gaze turns gentle and affectionate. “You never cease to amaze me, Dean Winchester.”

Sleep takes him again for the rest of the night. Dean refuses to sleep in his own bed, and holds Castiel’s hand until it his buzzes from lack of circulation, keeping him warm and wrapped in his arms. It’s the best sleep Dean’s had in years.

 

 

*

 

“It’s not weird, is it?” asks Dean.

Sam’s throwing a jacket on, ready to hunt the zombie after all. “What?”

“You guys were a thing first,” he says, flipping his pancake over.

Sam’s keys jingle when he picks them up and stuffs them in his pocket. “No, you were. That whole ‘I am the one who raised you from Perdition’ thing.” He grins when Dean sends a glare his way. “I’ll call for back-up if the zombie bites me.”

“Not funny,” grits Dean. “You better call way before it sinks its teeth into your neck.”

“I will,” he says. “Tell Cas to text if he wants me to bring him some burgers.”

“Sure,” says Dean. He places a steaming pancake on top of the other ten. Castiel certainly won’t have a shortage of food.

 

*

 

There’s a stack of books on Castiel’s bedside table next to the empty plate of pancakes he gobbled down like a ravenous beast. He has glasses on the end of his nose, and a flannel shirt on. “The Men of Letters were remarkable.”

“And still are. Sam went out to get the zombie; you want him to bring back anything?”

Castiel’s expression darkens, his mouth twitching playfully. “Condoms?”

Dean chokes on his spit. “Man, you are way too good at this human thing.”

“I need to be since I am technically more human than you are now.” He pats the right side of the bed. “Sit with me.”

Stripping off his leather jacket, he plops down on the bed. “You won’t miss it?”

“What exactly?” asks Castiel, folding his glasses. The black frames make him look like a sultry Clark Kent.

Shrugging a shoulder, he says, “Heaven, your family, flying. I don’t know.”

“My heaven is here now.” The bed shifts when Castiel leans over to kiss Dean, his hand curling at the nape of his neck. “But I’ll admit it was easier to get around with wings.”

“Ah-ha! I knew it,” teases Dean, ruffling his dark bed hair.

Castiel pinches his neck and bites his lip during the next kiss. “Tell Sam to take his time.”


	2. Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a lot more on his plate than a spine injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect mutant power usage and a whole lotta italics. Also someone who is technically dead (according to DOFP) is not dead here because of reasons! 
> 
> P.s. With this many overlapping timelines, there's bound to be a tiny plothole or two. I apologize in advance. Aaaaaand I also shuffled the times around so they could all fit in present time-ish.

In the dead of night, Charles remembers half of his family is gone. It’s been a year since Shaw’s death, and his own slow crawl in and out of depression.

Raven, whom he took in and cared for like his own blood, turned away and left without so much as a kiss goodbye. Though she believed Erik was the only man who truly _saw_ her, and knew _how_ to love her, in her heart she still missed Hank. Charles hoped that deep down Erik would remember who he saved on that plane; who leapt into the water for him; who he cradled on that beach…

He wipes the sweat from his brow, turning on the lamp at his bedside. He presses two fingers to his forehead, closing his eyes.

_Do not bother, Hank. I’m all right. Simply another night terror. Goodnight, my friend._

Charles spends fifteen minutes trying to suppress the sensation of his lower limbs moving of their own accord. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth; counts to one hundred, then the same again-- but backwards. The twitching stops, but he can’t sleep anymore. He turns off his lamp and lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. He can almost remember all the mutants he touched before Cerebro was destroyed. Maybe he can still try to find some of them.

 

*

 

With the arrival of morning comes some unexpected visitors: Erik and Raven. Hank is the one who answers the door, and his mental state is in such disarray that Charles can’t help but feel the roar climbing out of his throat, knowing exactly who would cause it. As difficult as it was for Charles to lose his best friend, it was just as jarring for Hank to see his mentor become disabled by someone they thought they could trust. Alex has been mourning Darwin in private, but trains every day so he won’t lose another friend that easily again. He’s outside in the field when they step into Charles’ home, for which he’s grateful. Sean is outside of the country, on another of his personal missions.

If Hank starts snarling like his “Beast” nickname, how will Alex react?

Charles drags himself out of bed quickly, hair dishevelled and tangled. He floats himself and his wheelchair down to the entrance, hushing Hank inside his mind to keep him from attacking unnecessarily. They were once allies after all.

“Erik, Raven,” he says. Even he can’t keep the coldness out of his tone. They would have been welcomed if they’d come sooner.

 _Be calm, Hank. It is all right._ He stands behind Charles, back arched and his blue fur standing on edge, each strand like a porcupine’s needles.

Raven smiles, but there are wrinkles where there weren’t before. She’s lost part of her youth, it seems. Charles smiles back, then turns his attention to Erik. His lip trembles, his eyes welling up with tears. He holds one hand out, as if wanting to grasp the wheels of the chair and yank them apart, tearing them away from Charles.

It’s his fault for not staying to see the consequences of his anger. “Why are you here?” asks Charles.

“I wanted to see –” His voice cracks, and he thumbs away a tear from his left eye. _I wanted to see if you were doing better._ Another tear slides warm down his right cheek. “I’m sorry, Charles. I didn’t know it went this far.”

Charles straightens in his chair as much as he can, wheeling forward with his telepathy alone. “I am not helpless, Erik. Do not forget who allowed you to kill Shaw.” He touches Raven’s hand briefly. “You’re welcome to stay for a short while, but I would prefer you keep your pitying looks to yourselves.”

Hank follows Charles as he goes down the hall, into the study. They don’t look back, just as Erik did a year ago.

 

*

 

It’s expected for them to take back their old rooms. They don’t speak of Janos, Emma, Azazel or even Angel. The mansion is filled with enough ghosts and sadness without new pain added in. Raven’s mind is open to Charles’ but he prefers to let it alone; they aren’t the “siblings” they once were. Hank has crept into her place; Alex has become a machine of training; Sean comes and goes, travelling from each coast, searching for a way to overcome enmity with his “Banshee” persona. The mutant hatred needs to stop; massacres could happen at any moment.

Charles tries to keep those dark thoughts far from his mind. It’s enough that he can never walk again. It’s enough that Hank and Alex feel they must tiptoe around him. Breathe a different kind of air just to let him live longer, better, easier. But he’s not _dying_ ; at least, not any faster than they are. He’s just…not as mobile as he once was.

The air in the mansion becomes stifling at times; Raven wants to tell Hank how she feels, while Erik wants to let a stream of begging words fall from his lips with every breath. Charles wants none of it in his presence. He will have none of it. If it were up to him, they would be long gone already and he could swallow his sadness down at his own pace.

 

*

 

One evening, Erik meets Charles in his study for a game of chess. It is a wordless match, and one that ends quickly. They’re both rusty, but all Charles has to do with his time is train his mind, calculate patterns and fractions and options and realities and theories. It’s part of why he’s so angry with Erik; the event at the beach replays in his mind constantly. The sore is perpetually reopened, never healing, never drying and falling away naturally. It becomes rougher, larger, harder to ignore. But never heals quietly.

“Charles –” Erik starts. He picks up a pawn, then puts it back in its place. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Charles looks up, his eyes feeling wetter than he’d like. He takes in a breath, steeling his expression because there’s a truth that needs to be set free. “Yes, if you stay with me.”

The jumble of Erik’s thoughts stops stampeding through the study. They narrow down to a single thread, a memory: the one of the lit candles that set Erik’s power free.

_If only you’d taken it away._

It’s a waste of time arguing with the insanity of a desperate man, a broken one. Charles won’t return his anguish to him; the ‘training’ Shaw gave him. It’s not worth it, even if it means one less battle towards peace between humans and mutants. It could also mean Erik’s eventual demise, and Charles isn’t a monster yet. Not quite.

 

*

 

 

This is why Charles is so relieved for a call from overseas. The Winchesters, a family known for their often cut-throat brutality, may have to change their ways. From what Sam tells him, he is convinced Dean will soon be a mutant. One of the creatures he often hunts without knowing their origin or the meaning of their violence. Not everyone is a telepath, he has to remind himself.

\---

As expected, Dean is short tempered and aggressive. His description of Charles’s friends is insulting at best and ignorant at worst.

To Dean’s eyes, Hank is large and blue; therefore, he is a threat. Alex is a human laser beam; therefore, he is a threat. Raven can look like anyone she wants; therefore, she is a beautiful, shape-shifting threat (his words, not Charles’s). Erik is a “handsome devil”; his powers aren’t shown in Dean’s presence. (Charles notes how advanced Erik’s self-preservation techniques have become in the time since Cuba.)

In Charles’s opinion, Dean is the biggest threat: he can barely contain his animal urges when anyone steps in or around his bedroom.

 

\---

 

In the midst of Dean scanning everyone and memorizing everyone’s abilities – probably so he can disarm them later, if necessary (or possibly drain them of their blood) – Sean arrives.

Barely having taken two feet inside the mansion, Sam is kind enough to approach him first, whispering, “Don’t let my brother know what your ability is. He’s a bit…out of it right now, and he’s getting more violent by the second.”

“Oh yeah?” Sean peers around Sam’s large frame, eyeing the bedroom blocked by Hank’s frame. Charles knows that look; has seen it countless times in the heat of an argument or during training. Sean doesn’t like backing down from a challenge. If anything, he relishes in taking them on.

Too bad he ignores all the aggravated thoughts Charles sends to his mind. _Do not approach Dean._

Sean grins wide, Charles can feel it confronting him. “Hey, pal, mind letting me by?”

Hank tilts his head. “Did Charles say my shift was up?”

Tapping him on the shoulder he says, “Yeah, yeah. Definitely. Go take a break, man. I got this.”

 _You are making a grave error. He is not like us. He will hurt you. He_ can _hurt you._

Sean turns the knob, peeking inside. He sees nothing from what Charles’s view from his mind tells him. There’s a form in a corner of the room, though. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a single sound of existence.

_Sean, I can’t be held responsible for your actions if you do not heed my warnings._

If Charles so chooses, he could control Sean’s exoskeleton as he’s done a number of times to Russian military officers and even Shaw. This is a lesson, however. One he hopes Sean will not soon forget.

_I’ll be fine, professor. Don’t act all old._

That is where Charles draws the line: he is not old, nor is he deserving of that comment.

Sean is inside the room fully, closing the door behind him. “Hello?”

 _Enjoy your meeting, Sean,_ he sends with a mental flick. He stays tucked inside Sean’s mind, though, just in case.

Dean is up and howling like a rabid animal even before Sean has a chance to flick Charles’s mind back. His claws extend, his crimson eyes pierce through Sean from his unsatisfied hunger, and he lunges with his entire body. The only thing that keeps him away is Sean’s instinct to defend kicking in; he screeches, sending him flying and breaking Dean’s window in the process.

Charles sighs from his bedroom, sending Hank, _can you please get Alex and have him watch the window while you watch the door. Sean is an absolute nuisance already._

 

*

 

Only days later, Dean is human again – or, as human as he’ll ever be now that he’s become a mutant. Charles visits him in the afternoon, offering him tea and biscuits. British stereotypes tend to make Americans feel more at ease, he thinks. And it just so happens that he likes the combination.

“Care for a small snack?” The door is already open.

“Sure,” says Dean, pulling his headphones off. He points to one. “I was listening to Zeppelin. You know them?”

“Indeed. Interesting band choice,” says Charles. “Would you like sugar and milk?”

“Just sugar,” he says, pushing the headphones underneath his pillow. He takes the cup Charles hands to him. “So what’s up? Need help hunting something?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Charles sips his tea, locking his wheelchair in place in front of dean. “I meant to speak to you…about your angel.”

Dean laughs. “He’s not my—”

“But you wish he were,” Charles finishes for him. He doesn’t look away when Dean glares at him, a fiery look of betrayal.

“If this is about my love life, you need to get the hell out.” Dean slams his cup down on the antique saucer. Tea sluices over the side of the flowery cup; Charles mentally shrugs. It wasn’t his favourite, it was his mother’s.

“It’s about happiness that I bring you this topic.” Dean continues to glare at Charles, but he won’t be put off by such childish tactics. “Without my knowledge, I swept through some of your mind. Perhaps I touched you when you first arrived, when you were most susceptible to my ability.” He waves a hand, sipping his tea again. “Anyhow, I saw how dear Castiel is to you.”

“ _And_?” Dean’s hands are balled into fists, his chin jutting out menacingly.

Curiously, Charles wonders if he’s more animal than man. “I wonder why you haven’t told him.”

“He’s an _angel_ ,” snaps Dean. “Not to mention he’s my best friend. You know how awkward that is?”

“I do, as my best friend left and returned to me recently.” He doesn’t falter as he tells Dean, “I am in love with him as well.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No—”

“Then you don’t get to freakin’ lecture me. Get the hell out of my room. Or are you going to pull ‘my house, my rules’ bullshit on me?”

Both hands raised, placating, Charles lets his cup levitate for a moment before he grabs it for another sip. “I’ll leave you alone. I won’t tell a soul of this either.”

“You better not,” grits Dean, following Charles as he wheels out. Dean slams the door behind him, nearly catching the ends of his long hair.

 

*

 

The two brothers and their angel leave the mansion – once Dean is more in control of himself – but not before Castiel takes Charles and Hank aside.

The night prior, they meet in Charles’ study, all around the chessboard that was set up for a game with Erik. He tells them nothing before; he closes his eyes, and when he reopens them, his body seems to glow with a current it didn’t have before. He stands in front of Charles first.

“What—” _are you doing?_

_I’m thanking you on behalf of my friends._

Castiel kneels between Charles’s legs, resting both palms flat against his knees. There’s nothing but the ticking of a wall clock (and Hank’s speeding heart) at first, then warmth like Charles has never known spreads through bone, muscle, nerves, blood and skin. Both of his legs twitch outward. Charles, in his stupor, looks to Hank for the words to explain what is happening. Even with everything he’s seen, this was never once a possibility. Not standing far behind, Hank stays with his mouth hanging open. His eyes are very wide.

“I would suggest taking it slowly at first,” says Castiel. He stands, straightening the lapels of his overcoat with a pleased little smile. “Now you,” he directs at Hank.

“Me? I – I – My body works just fine,” croaks Hank.

“As much as you’d like to feign happiness,” says Charles, shakily pushing himself up to look Hank in the eyes, “we all know what you really want.” He manages to stay upright for a moment, but collapses into Hank’s chest. “I’m all right. In fact, I’ve never felt more alive.”

Hank’s eyes dart back and forth between Charles’s; he nods as he receives _He will only improve your life, my friend, just as we’ve helped Dean_.

Castiel’s glow is dimmer this time, but it assaults Hank’s animal senses as he approaches from the side of the chess table. To keep him calm, Charles squeezes his hand, stroking the soft fur on his knuckles. The instant Castiel’s palm presses to his forehead, Charles has to pull away. It’s a charge of light and heat so fierce he’s afraid he’ll melt from the proximity alone – he doesn’t want to undo the gift he’s just received, even if his legs are still too shaky to support him.

Hank heaves in a loud breath as Castiel moves back, equally winded. He watches Hank with a head tilt; predatory fangs retract, his skin turns back to its normal paleness tinged with a flushed pink, his eyes blink back to blue. To Charles’ eyes, he is the young man he was not long ago, before he decided his feet were shameful and ugly. A burden.

“It is permanent,” says Castiel, “but I’ve allowed you to change between forms as you wish. If ever you want your mutation to be known, it is available to you.” He smiles at him. “There is a beauty to everything after all.”

“Thank you,” says Charles. _He needed to hear that._

Mouth opening to mutter his thanks, Hank begins to get teary eyed. But Castiel is already gone. He leaves them behind with a sound of large, fluttering wings and the wall clock as it ticks a new time in their life.

 

*

 

Due to the year of immobility, Charles is shaky for the rest of the evening. In the morning, Dean and Sam are gone before Charles can tell them of Castiel’s generosity. Instead, he finds Raven and Erik in the kitchen bickering about peanut butter as they make toast.

“Why would anyone eat peanut butter with honey?” she says, sticking her tongue out in disgust. She already has two sandwiches made, the crust cut off, just how Charles used to do it for her.

“Because it’s far more delicious than with plain, old jam!” says Erik, bumping her shoulder. He has a couple sandwiches of his own, cut into points and with fruits placed delicately between.

“You have no taste,” she mumbles. She slides her plate further away from his.

He pretends to try and grab one of hers, and she laughs. “What was that?”

“She said you have no taste,” says Charles as he leans in the doorway, legs sore but working at least.

“Charles,” coos Raven, “tell Erik he has no ta—” When she looks up, her knife slides along her thumb, coating it with honey. “You’re – you’re…”

“Standing, yes,” he says. He smiles. “Good morning to you both. Are any of those for me?”

Erik frowns deeply, letting his plate clatter and the knife fall into the sink. He charges towards Charles and pushes him into the hall. “What game are you playing at? Why would you do this to us? I’ve been manipulated my whole life and you do this?” He slams Charles back against the wall, squeezing a hand around his throat.

One of Charles’s hands is free, and he presses two fingers to Erik’s temple to speak. He coughs as Erik squeezes too tightly.

_I did not pretend to lose mobility. I spent a year unable to walk and then Castiel healed me. He is an angel, remember? A genuine angel with abilities unknown to humans and mutants. Do not take me for an enemy. I have always been your friend. I will remain so even if you don’t believe me._

Stepping back, Erik lets Charles go. He catches him before he crumples. “I – I’m sorry. I overreacted. It’s been a very complicated year without your clear mind around to guide me.”

“I noticed,” says Charles, rubbing his throat. He coughs softly, straightening up. “When did Angel die?”

“A few months ago,” he says. “I told her not to attract too much attention. I warned her that Stryker was watching us.”

“I’m sorry,” says Charles, placing a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “She’s the reason you came back to us?”

“To _you_ ,” corrects Erik. “She told me to go wherever I felt safe. I realized, too late, that it was with you.” He touches Charles’ cheek. “I’m sorry for my anger. I thought the one person I could always count on had become –”

“I would never manipulate you in such a disgusting way, Erik,” whispers Charles. “You should know the man I am.”

“I do. I was just…”

Charles steps towards Erik, away from the wall. “I know. I understand. But you must trust me more.”

Raven clears her throat from where she’s peeking in the kitchen. “If you guys are done your melodrama, I finished making our breakfast. I’ll go get Hank and Alex so they can join us.” She eyes Erik, narrowing her gaze at him. “I suggest lying about how Charles got that mark on his neck because Hank already doesn’t like you anymore.”

 

*

 

In the evening - after Sean returned and tried to break Erik’s eardrums – Charles shuffles, calmly and with gratitude, towards his room. Raven is already there, arms crossed over her chest. She is naked like the day they met, but now she is uncomfortable because of the last _proper_ conversation they had.

“Don’t cover yourself, Raven, my dear,” he tells her.

“But you said it made you uncomfortable,” she counters. Her hair has gotten longer, wilder. She is a fierce creature now, one not to be taken lightly.

“I was wrong. So, please--” He gestures for her to take a seat on his bed with him. She follows, stretching her arms out behind him in case he stumbles. “What brings you to my room?”

“I – didn’t want to choose between you two.”

“I know.” He touches her hand. “But you’ve come back now.”

Raven pulls her hand away. “Yes, but, I _left_ you. I left you right after a battle. Right after –”

“It’s all right now,” he murmurs, reaching for her hand. He tangles their fingers. “I am better now. I’ve had Hank and Alex watching me like overprotective parents this entire year.” He chuckles. “Perhaps a bit too much. I don’t blame Sean for leaving when they get a bit out of control and start their conversations about barricading me in the mansion.”

She laughs, sniffling as she tightens her hold on his hand. “I’m really sorry. You’re the first family I ever had. I should have waited for you to recover…”

“We all made mistakes, I’m no exception. But we’re together now. Please don’t dwell on the past. It’s the reason you’re starting to have crow’s feet.” He pokes her temple gently.

“Hey! You look like a grandfather, so don’t talk with your mop hair.”

Charles winces, sliding a hand through his locks. “That bad? I knew I was due for a cut, but Hank insisted I looked ‘of this era.’”

“We’ll you do, but they also smoke a lot of weed. And I’m pretty sure you don’t.” She nudges him with an elbow, grinning.

He chuckles, leaning against her. “I’ve tried it, didn’t help my telepathic abilities in the least.”

She gasps, grabbing his knee. “What? When? Oh my god, how did you get a hold of some?”

“That, my dear, is for someone else to tell. I’ve had a long day and I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.” He brushes his knuckles along her cheek. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Raven nuzzles his hand. “I won’t.” She helps him slide underneath his comforter. “Do you want me to tell the others not to disturb you?”

“I doubt they will now that Sean has returned.”

 

\---

 

_If you would be so kind as to stop pacing outside my door, Erik, and come in, I would be most grateful._

The door to Charles’s bedroom creaks open slowly. “I didn’t think you would hear me.”

He points down. “You are still wearing boots.” He sits up in bed. “Is there something you’d like to discuss? Perhaps a game of chess?”

Erik bites the inside of his lip, sliding his hair from his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the accident on the beach.”

Charles sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He pushes his blankets down, patting the left side for Erik to sit. “I feel this will be a long conversation, you might prefer to relax.”

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

“All right,” says Charles. “I knew your mind was set on attacking humans, I knew my sister was with you. I knew I was angry for believing you would see my side of things. I knew I couldn’t change your mind. That is what I knew, and why I didn’t bother to tell you.” He waves a hand. “We weren’t – amicable anymore. It wasn’t a burden worth sharing.”

“I was still your friend,” grits Erik. He rounds the bed, to Charles’s side, cupping his face. “I will always _be_ your friend. Don’t you understand, Charles? You made me stronger, better. You showed me the mutants who I could count on.”

Charles can’t keep the smile from his face. “Erik-”

“No, next time anything happens, I want to know first. Tell me no matter what. If I die tomorrow, contact me from beyond the grave so I can haunt however it is who hurt Charles Xavier, my closest friend.” He leans down, still holding Charles’s face. “And maybe something more.”

Charles’s lips part. “More?”

“Can’t you read my mind?” asks Erik, smirking.

“I prefer to hear it,” mutters Charles. His eyes fall shut in wait.

Erik presses a kiss so gentle to Charles’s lips, that it may have just been a shared imagination. “There. Now you’re free to sleep.”

“Thank you,” says Charles, swallowing back nerves. “But I don’t need your permission.”

Erik winks as he pulls the door shut behind him. “I know.”

 

*

 

The next morning, Hank stands in the front doorway again – this time completely shell-shocked instead of aggressive. Charles walks up to him slowly, to prevent any alarm. He touches his shoulder, turning him his way. “What’s the matter, Hank?”

“I – just – this guy came in and insulted my clothing.” The door is still ajar behind him.

“So he’s inside? I can close the door then, yes?” He peeks around outside to see if there are any traces of someone else.

Hank nods, his jaw slack with befuddlement.

Charles presses a hand to Hank’s back, leading him further inside. “All right. Where did he go?”

Hank points up the stairs to where all the bedrooms are, including the guest ones.

“Stay here and I’ll confront him. Breathe, Hank. You already knew your sense of style was questionable as a scientist.” He wipes dust from Hank’s shoulders. “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

\---

 

Charles touches his temple to find his companions.

Fortunately, Alex was outside shooting his lasers at Sean, both of them in need of an outlet for their anger towards Erik. It does help that Charles can walk again, though. Raven is outside with them, sitting on the steps, watching from a safe distance in case they decide to aim at her next.

The stranger is inside with him and Hank alone, then. That’s good news.

He takes the steps slowly, grateful that they don’t creak. He walks past his bedroom; feels no one inside. Walks past another, where Raven is staying – it’s also empty. Erik’s is next, then Hank’s, Alex’s, Sean’s…No one to be found in any of them. The intruder, if he is that, is polite in spite of his insult to Hank’s wardrobe.

The first guest bedroom contains the stranger, stretched out on the queen size bed. He sighs as he folds his hands behind his head.

“Excuse me,” says Charles, stepping into the room. “May I ask why you’re here?”

“I needed more room,” he says, “and I came across this mansion. Your doorman didn’t seem to mind.” He keeps his eyes shut. “You guys don’t seem to have much security. I would fix that with a place this big.”

 _What makes you think we don’t have any security?_ Charles crosses his arms, smiling as the stranger jumps into a sitting position.

“What the hell was that?” he asks.

“My ability. I sense you have a few of your own. Werewolf?” he asks.

The stranger nods mutely. “How’d you know- lemme guess, your ability.” He sucks his teeth. “Figures I’d pick the only mansion with weirdo creatures just like in Beacon Hills.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of the events in that town. You’ve travelled a long way.” Charles straightens his vest. “You’re free to join me and Hank for breakfast. I was just about to make omelettes.”

The stranger tilts his head. “You’re not gonna kick me out?”

“Why should I?” asks Charles, squinting. “Have you murdered anyone? Stolen? Kidnapped a helpless infant?”

The stranger shakes his head, scoffing. “No, but –”

“I can see into your mind, Jackson Whittemore. I know you are not my enemy.” Charles grins at Jackson’s sputtering. “Stay as long as you need.”

 

*

 

Although tough in exterior, Jackson seems quite at home with the supernatural, and treats Raven as though she’s the most interesting creature he’s ever met. (Perhaps she is.) With the boys, on the other hand, he’s selfish and stubborn, and often rude.

Hank became fed up with the treatment after a day and started using his “Beast” form to intimidate Jackson. However, Jackson has a beastly form of his own that he’d been keeping secret. It ended in a brawl outside in the pouring rain that lasted for over two hours. Finally, Sean had to exit the mansion and scream at the top of his lungs to make them cower and stop.

Erik then wrapped them both in metal links (from a nearby fence) and forced them inside to get dry.

Alex and Jackson have similar personalities: using quick wit and insults to keep a barrier between them and everyone else they have issues trusting. But Hank is still his friend, a dear one. And Jackson crossed a line by fighting with him with such fervour; they both have cuts, bruises and welts that will take a short while to heal.

 

\---

 

In the guest bedroom, Charles tends to Jackson’s wounds, warning him not to get between Hank and Alex; they will soon see each other’s interest and be involved.

“I don’t want to date Hank!” he snaps. “He was just so sure I’d be afraid of a big, blue hairy beast that I couldn’t stop myself. I can’t stand--”

“Intimidation, I understand.” He wraps Jackson’s wrist with gauze. “But you’ve been using quite a bit of it yourself.”

Jackson looks off to the side, refusing to answer.

“If you’re going to remain here, you need to try and fit in.” He turns Jackson’s wrist over, sighing at the cuts along his knuckles from throwing punches. “They are not only my students but my friends. They are dear to me,” he says. “I can’t allow you to stay if you don’t respect that simple rule.”

Jerking his wrist away, Jackson slides back to lean against the frame of his bed. His head knocks back against the wall. “Fine, I’ll try to play nice."

“Thank you.”

 

\---

 

It turns out that Charles’s heart-to-heart was unnecessary: Natasha Romanov appears at his front door on a Monday. She says Jackson’s friends are looking for him, and have come all the way from Beacon Hills. Scott, more so than Stiles – from what he can tell of Natasha’s tone – was worried about Jackson being a new werewolf on his own in a foreign place.

Perhaps Scott’s senses were right, because as soon as Jackson goes out with them for some air, he returns with an aura about him that wasn’t there before. Obviously, he’s happier to have someone familiar there to speak to, but he’s also touched that they took the time to seek help finding him overseas. (And through a world-renowned spy, no less.)

Jackson has a skip to his step - even as he rolls his eyes and punches Stiles in the arm (playfully), feigning annoyance. He’s also stopped insulting Hank’s clothing; doesn’t make fun of Sean’s ginger hair, nor does he purposely start fights with Hank in front of Alex to get a rise out of him (or a confession, rather).

In a way, he’s become peaceful. He barely stays in the mansion now that his friends are staying in the city with him. Often, he returns with leftovers from their meals and gives them to whomever wants something to eat – usually Raven is quickest to the kitchen.

 

\---

 

Then comes the day when he wants to leave the mansion. Charles knew he never intended to stay; he simply needed a change of scenery. But now that he’s content and with his friends, he doesn’t need to hideaway from the rest of humanity as he had been. In spite of appearances, Jackson is very considerate – and it’s no coincidence that he decides to leave the moment Logan arrives with two strangers of his own.

In the short time he stayed at the Xavier mansion, he created a bond with Raven and Hank. They both take turns hugging him as he pretends to struggle away, and they exchange phone numbers to visit each other once in a while.

And then he’s gone, as if he never was.

Hank only has twenty minutes to mope about it because Logan puts him in charge of Marie, a new mutant in need of caring.

Later, the young man with bandages over his eyes uncovers them. Charles pats him on the shoulder to let him know it’s safe to open his eyes. He will use his ability if necessary. He dares a look outside his window to avoid hurting anyone in the vicinity, and notices Alex in the grass with Sean, training hard as usual. He gasps, gripping the edges of his window as a steady stream of red shoot from his eyes.

“Alex!” he shouts.

They noticed the beam, of course, but somehow his scream made it more apparent.

Alex flails from the grass, screaming back, “Scott! You’re okay!” He takes off like a bullet through the grass, racing to greet Scott.

Even without having to listen, Charles knows Sean is questioning everything that’s happening – from the similar beams to the ones Alex contains in his body, to the happy cheers of reunion. What Charles hadn’t counted on was such a strong reaction from Logan downstairs, but he’s able to manage that unleashing of panic and aggression, as well as contain Scott’s eyes to a spot that won’t injure Sean – so all is well.

Scott is careful to close his eyes before he directs his words at Charles. “That’s my baby brother. I’m so glad he’s not still in jail. Where’d you find him?”

“He was in solitary confinement until I convinced the CIA he could be of use to them,” says Charles with a hint of pride he can’t keep out of his tone.

“So you’re CIA? I didn’t think any mutants could get in–”

“Not anymore,” says Charles. He places the bandages in Scott’s hands. “Wear this for now. I’m certain Hank and I can fabricate something less…oppressive for you to use.”

 

*

 

They play chess in bed now, he and Erik. Each on one side, legs folded below them, they take turns while discussing the day. Erik tends to lose clothes as time passes, ending up in a white undershirt by the time the last moves are in play. Charles pretends not to notice his manipulation in progress, but it’s difficult not to. He’s a very attractive man and he takes good care of his appearance. The shorter hair and slight scruff makes him even more delectable to Charles’s eyes.

Down to his undershirt again, Erik asks, “How many mutants are here now?” His king is on its last leg, if all goes according to Charles’s plan – and clearly, he wants to distract him so that doesn’t occur.

“Counting you and Raven, there are exactly eleven of us for the time being,” says Charles, playfully checking Erik’s king for the second time in a row. He grins when Erik’s face twists with irritation.

“For the time being? Are you trying to collect them _all,_ like trading cards?” teases Erik, knocking over one of Charles’s pawns and delaying his imminent loss.

Charles shakes his head, laughing. “My dear, Erik: you knew from the beginning that my goal was to aid mutants and guide them. I don’t intend to force everyone to stay here. I just want to show them what their life could become with a bit of focus and perseverance.”

“And what will be the result of your work?” he groans as Charles checks his king again.

“Happiness for all of us. I just want them to know there are people like me willing to fight for their rights.”

“So you’ve become an activist now?”

“Wasn’t I always?” laughs Charles, sighing as Erik checks _his_ king now. “I thought I had you teetering on the edge.”

“I was stalling, Charles. We’ve been playing enough now that I’m not rusty anymore.” He grins, stroking a hand along Charles’s cheek. “You are quite adorable when you try not to sulk.”

“I am _not_ sulking. Merely rethinking my entire strategy – again.” He slaps Erik’s hand away playfully.”

“Ow! Touchy.” Grinning, Erik rests a hand on Charles’s thigh. “We can leave the rest of the game for tomorrow if you’d like to move on to more…physical activities?”

“Only if you don’t change the placement of the board while I’m asleep as you did last time,” says Charles, pointing a finger at him in warning. “You know how much I dislike cheating.”

“I wasn’t cheating. I was levelling the playing field. You’re too good for me now, Charles.” He reaches around him, stroking the hair at his nape. “Take it as a compliment.”

“Your manipulations don’t work on me,” breathes Charles, closing his eyes. “I see through them. I know your mind well.”

“How well?” he asks, kissing the side of Charles’s mouth. “Enough to not need to read it to understand how much I want you right now?”

“Perhaps,” murmurs Charles. He moves the board aside with a flick of his wrist, careful to keep every piece in its exact place. “But perhaps I’d rather see as well.” Touching Erik’s temple during the next kiss makes him whimper between their mouths. He launches himself on top of him, stripping off his vest, his shirt, his pants and already reaching for Erik’s before Erik can catch his breath.

 

What Erik shows him is: _Charles spread out on the bed, knees bent and feet planted, he writhes and moans as Erik nibbles his collarbone, two fingers already pressing inside him, warm and slick from their first orgasm together. Legs wrap around Erik’s middle, squeezing him in place as he pushes deeper, touching that slight bump that makes Charles’s mind scream, trying to reach an outlet for the pleasure dragging against his senses. When Charles struggles too much beneath Erik, begging to be penetrated, Erik growls and refuses. Shakes his head fervently as he calls to him tiny, metal handcuffs, made for – and only for – Charles and his narrow wrists. After Charles is hiccuping from the overload of four fingers pushing into him, his hips moving erratically and his tongue almost too big for his mouth, his eyes clenched like his fists, Erik rips his pants down and shoves in between his thighs. Careful on the first thrust, always careful, but once Charles sighs with relief, he sets a brutal pace. Pounding into him with a year’s worth of hunger, grunting on each thrust, pushing Charles up the bed with his hips, holding his thighs apart and leaving marks in the pale skin. Charles is flushed, mouthing at Erik because he can’t keep the moans from coming out and there are so many curious ears now. So many teenagers and adult mutants in the mansion in the rooms, close enough to feel the vibration of the bed if they just pressed their hand._

_Erik has no such inhibition. He digs his teeth into Charles’s lobe, whispering, “You’re so pretty like this, Charles. I want to fuck you on every surface we can find. I hope your precious students find us so they know how possessive I am. How you belong to no one but me.”_

_“Erik! Please!” he whimpers, and Erik will be merciful enough to stroke his leaking cock, but not kind enough to do it at the pace Charles’s needs to release._

_It will take ten minutes of torment, of Erik driving into him at a steady pace, hitting his prostate over and over, but never faster or harder. Never touching his cock quick enough to let it all go. But as he sucks on Charles’s panting mouth, pulling his tongue between his lips. He will think, repeatedly, how much he wanted to do this a year ago, even if the CIA filmed it all, even if Raven was nearby, even if Hank walked in on them and gasped. How it has always been Charles, and there could never be anyone else._

_And Charles is a lost soul: he explodes internally before he releases externally, his nails digging into his palms, a cry so loud it reverberates through the mansion, waking anyone who might have still been awake at two in the morning. His clenching muscles send Erik over the edge next, spilling in between Charles’s battered thighs, red from fingers and thrusting. He kisses Charles’s mouth until they both need to pull away for breath, for air that isn’t reaching their lungs. He unlocks the handcuffs, peppering Charles’s wrists with soft kisses, asking forgiveness in his own, tender way. Perhaps admitting his love for Charles sometimes gets the best of him._

_\---_

Surprisingly, Erik falls asleep first. Charles cuddles up next to him, tangling their legs. He leans his head on Erik’s chest, arms around him. It’s been a long time since Charles felt protected from the world; usually he’s the one protecting and defending. It’s a nice change of pace.

 

*

 

A quiet afternoon, Charles walks through the mansion, book in hand. He hears hushed tones coming from somewhere in the library, and from the gentleness he can tell it’s Hank. Walking faster, he rushes into the library to spend some time with him, only to swallow back the words he had planned.

Alex has him pinned against the bookshelf – quite a feat for a man slighter than Hank, but not completely shocking considering the docile nature hank has. They are kissing, he realizes too late. At first it just seemed like a tussle.

Charles knows, the moment he hears a humming, that he should turn on his heels and go far, far away. Maybe even tell the rest of the mansion to stay out of the library, but instead he’s in awe by their passion. He’s so proud that one of them finally made a step forward instead of five, subtle steps to the side, in a circle, downstairs and up – like a lonely, mutant shuffle.

Someone touches his shoulder and he nearly gasps. “Raven!” He pushes her out the door, closing it behind him. “They – uh – perhaps we should go for a walk, yes? I hear you’ve been getting along well with Marie.”

“She prefers ‘Rogue’, you know that,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re still such an old man. Does anyone even call you Professor X?”

“I’ve not told them they couldn’t.” He smiles as they take the stairs down two at a time. “And Jean? Are they both fitting in well?”

“I’d say so. They’ve been making blueberry pancakes, stopping Scott and Logan from bickering and even pushed Hank and Alex together.” She looks sad at the last part.

He stops, just in front of the entrance, on the outside of it where he hopes no one can hear. “And you’re…all right with that? I sense you have some lingering feelings.”

“I do – _did_. But he and Alex are kind of perfect together. I just need to find someone who’s perfect for me.” She grins. “As perfect as me, I should say.”

Charles laughs, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “That’s the spirit, Raven. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Even blue?” She raises a brow, following him as they walk through the garden.

Pulling her closer, he whispers in her ear, “Especially blue, darling.” He starts to jog ahead. “What shall I treat you to today?”

 

*

 

The beautiful redhead named Jean, has a darkness inside of her, just below the surface. Charles felt it the first day she arrived: frazzled and clinging to Ororo for dear life. They had teamed up and escaped Stryker’s facility a few days before Logan found it and broke the rest of the captives free. They had been on the run, stealing and hiding in woods, barely eating or sleeping. Everyone who approached was a threat that she used telepathy to turn away or erase clean.

Everyone except Ororo. She was Jean’s voice of reason, perhaps the sole source that kept Jean’s darkness at bay. Stryker had been picking at that evil, trying to pry out the secrets, unaware of just how deep it went.

Jean’s very soul is tainted by his crimes, by the evil he inflamed with his experiments and torment. The mansion has done well for her, Charles notes. She is friendly, smart, helpful. She is the most impressive student he’s ever had and completely unaware of how powerful she could become. Charles prefers not to tell her.

As she sleeps, he sneaks into her room – only a couple times per week at most; anything else would be too obvious – and he puts barriers around the darkness. It takes most of his energy from him, so he waits until night. Afterwards, she sleeps better, and the darkness is further away from the surface.

 

\---

 

Every time he returns to his room, creeping away from Jean’s, Erik waits for him with the chess board set up once again. He smiles with a hopeful little lilt to his mouth. “Are you up for a game?”

Charles can never refuse him, not anymore. He had a darkness of his own, but it’s fading now as well. “Certainly, darling. I’ll just change out of my clothes.”

“Or…we can skip foreplay and get straight to dessert.” Erik eyes the length of him, spreading his knees apart and patting them. “I’ve missed you.”

“You saw me all day,” says Charles, blushing in spite of his best efforts.

“I didn’t see underneath these stuffy clothes. It’s summer, Charles. When are you going to wear less?”

“I don’t feel comfortable—” He strips off his argyle sweater and dress shirt underneath, leaving only his bare chest. “—wearing so little in front of my students.”

“I’m not a student,” says Erik, pulling his own black sweater over his head. “Come here.”

“So long as you don’t expect me to call you ‘daddy’ or Santa Claus,” teases Charles, falling into Erik’s lap.

“You’re going to ruin the mood!” he tells Charles, tickling his sides.

Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s neck. “Impossible. I am the most sensual man you’ll ever meet.”

Erik tilts his head, considering. “That is true,” he mutters with a shark’s grin.

 

*

 

Sean is no longer afraid of heights; he sits on the roof of the mansion, whistling to the birds. Only when he knows everyone is awake. Charles sometimes goes to the topmost floor, sticking his head out of the window to have discussions with him. If he can’t see him, then he speaks telepathically. It’s interesting because Sean is a bit of a gossip; however, his information is always true. He’d be a celebrity’s worse nightmare for the plain fact that he can be invisible if he chooses, and he listens very intently.

Charles, chewing on a croissant that Ororo made, leans out the window. It’s for a room that hasn’t been claimed – yet another guest bedroom. In the future, he supposes he’ll have to get a bed for it, but for now just a round, wooden table and a chair is fine.

_Sean?_

Sean whistles, tapping his foot against the rooftop.

_Do you have any news today?_

_Rogue and Raven might be more than friends._

_How so?_

_I saw them holding each other’s faces, really close. Like, extremely close. I mean Rogue had gloves on, but you know, she kinda has to._

_Is that it? Perhaps they were bonding._

_And then Raven sighed and ran off._

_What about Marie?_

_She’s crying last I heard._

Charles pushes the window shut – his way of letting Sean know he’s left – and rushes to Rogue’s bedroom, the one at the far end (where Jackson had stayed briefly). Inside, just as Sean said, Marie is lying face-down on her bed, crying into a pillow.

“Marie—”

“Go away!”

Carefully, he shuts the door behind him. “Marie, please talk to me. I would like to help.”

“What do you know about me? Do you know how easy I could kill you just by touching you?” She muffles a scream in her pillows. “I hate this! This isn’t a gift! I want it to go away.”

“Don’t say that,” says Charles. He sits on the edge of her bed. He doesn’t reach out like he would normally, he can’t. “Your gift makes you less vulnerable than some of us. It’s a beautiful ability. You can experience what other mutants do.”

“But I can never touch them for more than a second! I can never kiss someone!” She turns, eyes wide and puffy from crying. “How can I be loved?”

“How could you not?” He frowns. “Not everything is about touch, my dear.”

She shakes her head, hiding her face in her bed. “Just go away.”

“All right, but call me if you’d like to talk.”

 

\---

 

With others, Raven is cold and callous. With Charles, she is fragile. Unlike Marie, she trusts him to console her broken heart. He rocks her back and forth, kissing the top of her head when the tears finally stop.

“It’s not the end. You can still be with her,” whispers Charles. “You just need to find a way around it. Together.”

“But I want to kiss her,” she cries. “I just want to feel it once.”

“Then try.” She looks up at him, wordless. He smiles. “If there’s anywhere you can experiment with abilities, it’s here. I won’t allow either of you to get hurt.”

 

 

*

 

Raven is able to kiss Marie, but only for short periods. They ask Charles to find a way to help; in the end, Jean is the one who’s strong enough to put blocks on Marie’s power. She programs Marie’s ability, linked closely to her mind, that Raven is not a threat.

The ability lessens – can’t go away completely – but it lessens.

So much so, that others begin complaining about how often they catch them kissing in halls, in the bathroom, in the garden.

 

*

 

A week after Charles puts up a sign for the “Xavier institute” – open to supernatural, paranormal and mutants alike – normally level-headed Scott throws a tantrum and slices the mansion nearly in half. The damage is astronomical. Fortunately, so was the trust fund left by Charles’s inattentive parents.

Just a moment of Scott’s ability being released is catastrophic. And all because of a misunderstanding, one that Charles’s finds quite amusing – aside from the cost to repair the mansion which puts a dent in the money he’d been saving for future arrivals.

Fortunately, again, Natasha Romanov needs a favour. Her Captain – you all know the one – as well as Thor and his adoptive brother, Loki, need a place to reside temporarily. Just until they settle a dispute between the brothers.

“In return,” she says, hip jutting out. “I’ll ask them to help out with repairing your mansion.”

“That won’t be necess—”

“Trust me,” she cuts in, “I wouldn’t turn down an offer like this.” She looks up at the ceiling, where a hole gapes back at them. “Loki can probably use some magic to fix this up instantly.”

Charles knows better than to turn that kind of help down. “Thank you, then. You’re welcome to stay.”

“I’ll let them know.” She smiles and inclines her head.

 

\---

 

Scott is at his bedroom door later that night. Erik glances between him and Charles, and sighs, wrapping a robe around himself. It’s purple, which for unknown reasons always makes Charles giddy and excited.

“I’m so, so sorry, Professor,” pleads Scott. “I don’t know what got into me. I never act like that. I risked everyone’s safety, and I’ll try my best to find a job and repay you for —”

“Scott, please, sit.” He shows him over to the side where there are chairs waiting for them. He pulls one out with a flick of his hand. “Please.”

Scott obeys, unwilling to say another word. He crosses his hands in his lap.

“It’s all right, you know. I understand that sometimes emotions can’t be controlled.” Charles leans forward. “When I was younger, I’d often put thoughts into the minds of my bullies.”

“Really? You?” asks Scott, one side of his mouth lifting slightly.

Charles nods. “Oh yes, I had no friends and my ability was my only companion. Slipping inside other children’s minds was so unappealing to me because they had no idea it was me. But it didn’t stop me from digging through their thoughts and finding their worst fears.” He sighs, rubbing his head. “I was horrible to one boy. He kept pushing my face in the dirt, so I convinced him his parents had died.”

“Oh, wow.” It may not be conscious, but Scott shifts back, away from Charles. “And then what?”

“Well, no one knew it was me. But the poor boy, he ran home and didn’t want to leave his parents. He thought it was a premonition.”

Scott blinks. “Okay, but are you saying – what are you trying to say?”

“You’re not quite as terrible as I was,” laughs Charles. “As simple as that. I don’t require your money, unless you feel absolutely compelled.” He pats his shoulder. “But I would appreciate you training future mutants. I think it could help stabilize your moods and the control of your ability. You have a unique gift.”

“You mean a broken one,” grumbles Scott.

“No, I meant _unique_. It gives you a perspective that touches both the mutants like me whose gifts are hidden, and those like Raven who is always apparent.”

 

\---

 

That seems to be the right thing to say; Scott agrees to help from then on. Any mutant that Charles senses nearby, or finds thanks to Hank’s new-and-improved Cerebro, he races over to immediately. Any straggler, any wanderer, anyone and everyone in need of mutant attention gets Scott as their welcoming committee. And he is so eager to meet them all; so happy to be of help. So very grateful to not be the only one who was alone and confused about his power.

 

 

*

 

The mansion is filled with life, absolutely filled to the brim with healthy, happy students. All of whom are intent on learning as much as they can about mutations and living with them safely (and secretly). It drains most of Charles’ energy, but it’s a good sort of tired.

As usual, he meets Erik in the bedroom they’ve been sharing for a few months. The mood in the room is off, he notices as soon as he steps in. Erik is packing his bags, his back to Charles.

“Where are you going?” asks Charles.

Erik visibly jolts, probably hoping to be gone before he’d noticed. “I need to leave.”

“Why in the heavens would you _need_ to leave?” Charles’s voice is shaking, his body crossing the room before he even finishes the question. His arms wrap around Erik from behind. “Why are you leaving me?”

“Because I love you, all right!” shouts Erik. He pries Charles’s hands off, turning to face him. He cups his cheeks, wiping away a tear that was sliding in a warm trail. “I’ve done so much wrong, Charles. I’ve been terrible the past year. And you’ve been nothing but wonderful.”

“But if you love me, why would you go?” he cries, leaning into Erik’s touch.

Erik pulls him in closer, dragging his fingers through his hair. Holding him close, he kisses his forehead. “I love you too much to show you my faults. You deserve someone better.”

“I don’t care what I deserve!” he growls, pushing Erik back. “I want you. I love you! Why can’t you stay with me?”

“Charles, please,” he begs, shaking his head. “Don’t make this more difficult. I didn’t intend to stay this long.” He stretches an arm out tentatively; Charles takes his hand, twining their fingers. “I need to find my purpose in life. I need to know if I can be redeemed. You’ve already found your calling and I’m so happy for you.”

As a puppet with its strings cut, Charles crumples to the ground, hiding his face in his knees. “Don’t leave me.” He cries softly. “Please don’t leave me. I need your strength.”

“Raven and Scott are your pillars,” says Erik, kneeling down. He pushes Charles’s hair aside to kiss his temple. “They are much stronger than I am. Even more than you.”

“But I’m not in love with them,” says Charles, looking up. His eyes burn with tears; he knows how awful he must look, sobbing like a child. But he doesn’t care. None of it matters so long as it makes Erik stay with him longer.

Erik closes his eyes, standing. “I’m sorry. But you can’t change my mind.”

“I can, you know,” warns Charles. His eyes narrow with an unspoken threat, still filled with tears. “I could make you forget this conversation, forget the past year of trauma, forget anything. And make you stay here with me.”

For a split second, Erik seems frightened. Then, he smiles. It doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes. “But you won’t.”

 _No, I won’t._ Charles rubs away the tears collecting at his chin. _So long as you come back to me._

 _I will return stronger, better. Someone you can be proud of, Charles._ He bends over, leaning his forehead against Charles’s. _Someone worthy of receiving your love._

Erik moves past him, picks up his bag and closes the bedroom door. Charles doesn’t look up until he hears his footsteps down the hall. _I’ll be keeping my mind on you, Erik._

_*_

 

Ororo Munroe is an unexpected visitor. Charles expected Raven or Jean to bring him out of his sadness over being left, for the second time. Instead, Ororo is the one. Bright white hair like sunlight peeking through clouds, she cocoons around him. She is warm and so good at consoling him that it barely hurts the next morning.

He wonders if that’s why Jean chose her to escape with.

This young woman, tanned and absolutely stunning, is wise beyond her years. She is one of the youngest in the mansion, but no one ever questions her logic or commands. They know, possibly from a past mistake, that Ororo is a creature not to be doubted. She is fierce in her own way, a force of nature.

Raven used to call her Mother Nature, until Ororo decided she rather be called Storm. Thunder and lightning are her favourite – which is surprising considering how sweet and stable she is. It’s quite possibly an opposites attract situation

In the morning, she visits again, and Charles’s throat is hoarse from crying so he doesn’t speak with his vocal muscles. He refuses to say anything aloud, because it might make the echoes of Erik’s confession disperse. It’s the only detail Charles is willing to hang on to: he _loves_ him. They love each other. It’s _mutual_.

Scooting close, Ororo’s knees bump his thigh as she crowds him in bed. She taps her temple. “Speak like this, then. I will listen fully.”

Charles begins to express his disappointment but, due to his current instability, he can’t help seeing into her memories, her thoughts, her dreams. It puts his own train of thought on hold.

She loves the smell of chamomile and jasmine; thunderstorms remind her of home; her mother was a bakery owner; Stryker killed her father when he tried to keep her from being brought to the facility. As she was trying to summon lightning, she was knocked unconscious by the blunt end of a rifle. She was ten years old.

At the facility, Jean spoke to her for weeks only using her mind. It was the only way they knew their conversations weren’t being listened to; the only way they knew their plan wouldn’t be found out. At the age of fifteen, to escape, Ororo had to go against her beliefs and kill three guards.

Everything she was taught in Africa was put aside; all she wanted was to see her mother again. When she arrived in her home, her mother was gone. Instead she found a grave waiting behind their home, their belongings burnt and ruined. Lightning came to her easy then. She used it to back up Jean any time one of Stryker’s officers tried to recapture them. All the way until they finally made it to some semblance of safety – thanks to a brief touch Charles placed on both their minds while he still worked for the CIA.

When Charles is done skimming through that tide of information, he shakes his head. She doesn’t need his problems. _I’m all right, Ororo. Your company is more than enough._

That doesn’t stop her from thinking: _I bet I know how to make you feel better._ With one blink, her eyes are white, clear as cataracts, and the darkening sky outside turns into a hue of orange and fuchsia. Warm, healing colours. The wind goes away and the sun shines through the clouds, even as it sets.

Charles can’t remember ever seeing a sunset this bright, but it’s still not as bright as his newest pillar, Ororo, as she smiles with all her teeth.

 


	3. Wanderers Unite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan is somehow a leader of misfits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my story, Scott is older than Alex (as he is in the comics) and Jean and Ororo are about his age, too. They're all from about 20-25 in my head. Logan being older, of course.
> 
> Possible plotholes, please forgive me.
> 
> p.s. the formatting of this one wouldn't cooperate so just ignore it. lol

For some unknown reason, Logan always ends up in the thick of a shitstorm or, in this case, one about to happen. Stryker was a superior – before. But now he’s just a power-crazed ex-military man with too many resources for his own goddamn good. He’d called Logan, told him about these new tests he wanted to try on him, so he could become stronger. Logan’s all about getting stronger. What he didn’t mention was how insanely painful they’d be, and the amount of mutants he had captive right underneath Logan’s boots, down in the basement like rats.

The same boots he suddenly throws at Stryker’s head, so he can claw his way out – thanks to his new implants of adamantium – and slice some guards a new orifice. He slashes his way down to the basement, where it’s mostly kids being held behind bars. _Kids_ , for Christ’s sake. Not even through puberty the whole way.

For some reason, there’s a taller boy wandering, the only one outside of his cell. He leaves him for last; he’s blindfolded, anyway. He won’t be running off on his own. The first bar he touches sends a jolt through his body that leaves him heaving for air. That makes the wandering kid even more interesting. How the hell did he get out if you can’t even touch these goddamn bars?

Logan has ideas of his own. He slices as quickly as he can, aiming at the lock instead of a centre bar like he had. It gives him a shock, yes, but nowhere near as bad. He can live with doing a few dozen more time – which is what it takes to get all the rest of the kids out. He ushers them towards an exit, standing guard from where he came from.

The kid is still wandering, hands out, eyes blindfolded. He could have taken it off by now, unless they did something so it couldn’t be removed.

“Hey, kid, lemme help with that,” says Logan, jogging over to him.

“No, don’t!” he shouts, waving his hands through the air.

Logan dodges his blind attempts at persuading him easily. “Kid, how else can I show you where to go? Just let me—” One claw is all he needs to cut through the fabric and it falls away leaf-like.

“No!” shouts the boy. His eyes aren’t red from lack of sleep or from crying; a laser the width of a wall shoots out of them. Red beam of certain death, if you ask Logan. The ceiling starts to crumble, and Logan rushes to push the kid out in the hall, to safety. The other kids were far enough ahead that they didn’t even see what shot out of the kid’s eyes.

“Man, use your words next time,” says Logan. He keeps a hand on his back to steer him, as he now has his eyes clenched shut to keep that from happening again. “Anywhere I should be leading you?”

“There was this professor,” says the kid. “I heard him a year ago. He said his home was safety.”

“And you believed him?” asks Logan, shaking his head. “Kid, I wouldn’t be so quick to jump into another science fair if I were you.”

“My name’s Scott, and you’re not me.” He moves so that Logan’s hand falls off his shoulder. “No one said you had to come. I’ll get there on my own.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Logan, rolling his eyes. “I’ll bring you there, but I’m not letting you stay if I see anything weird going on.”

Scott groans, walking faster. “Don’t need your help.”

Logan walks faster to catch up with him. “Actually, you do. I’m guessing if you even open one eye this whole building could collapse, right?”

There’s a pause. “…Yeah.”

“Wait, maybe you should go for it.” Logan shoves Scott. “I’ll stand a few steps behind you and make sure you don’t shoot one of the other kids.”

“I’m not a kid!” snaps Scott. He opens his eyes in Logan’s direction, aiming it right above his head.

For a second, Logan is terrified. But then he’s in awe again of that literally killer power. It goes on and on, never ending. Not until Scott shuts his eyes against the current of it.

He faces away from Logan. “I thought you were behind me,” he says.

“No you didn’t, you little shit,” laughs Logan.

They walk out of Stryker’s facility just in time to see it demolished into a pile of rubble, courtesy of Scott’s eye sockets.

*

They stumble upon Marie, a mutant girl with brown hair and gloves she never, ever wants to take off. She takes one look at them, and somehow figures out they’ve come from Stryker’s facility, too. Logan thinks it’s because he’s built like a brick house, but she says it’s because of the trembling in Scott’s hand, which she has as well from the injections they used to get on a daily basis. She needs a ride, and Logan can offer one since he stole a pick-up truck a few towns back.

Unlike Scott, Marie likes talking to Logan. She sits in the front next to him, while Scott lounges in the back. They were somewhere in Norway. Stryker didn’t really tell any of them where he brought them. His excuse for Logan was that it was a precaution, but they all know why that really was.

“Where are we now?” she asks, glancing around at the open spaces, a breeze pushing her hair around and into her eyes.

Logan sniffs the air. “Close to the Danish border, I’d say.”

“You can tell that by smell?” asks Scott in the back.

“In every country, the air is different. I just used to travel a lot,” he tells Scott.

Marie leans in. “You were in the army, weren’t you?”

Logan holds up his dog tag. “It’s where I got the name I use.”

She seems pleased to have guessed right. Turning over, her head pressed to the window she murmurs, “I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Me too,” says Scott, with a yawn.

“You’re both lucky you don’t have driver’s licenses. Or I’d be the one taking a nap.”

The only one who laughs is Marie; Scott pretends to be snoring.

\---

Maybe they didn’t fully think this through. Logan is the only one with any I.D. on him, but this is a stolen vehicle. Scott and Marie both look like deer caught in headlights, and Logan is a gruff-looking man. If he didn’t know the situation, he’d think he was a pedophile.

That’s exactly what the border police think.

Logan smashes through the gate with his pick-up, screaming, “Hang on!” to the kids in the back. Marie squeezes Scott to her, whimpering as they nearly hit two, three men who stand in the middle of the road with their guns raised.

Then, a miracle happens. Every officer drops to the ground like bowling pins. Not a single one left standing. A slight sniff tells Logan they’re still alive and breathing.

_I merely put them to sleep to make sure your travel isn’t inhibited any longer._

Logan growls, pressing down on the brakes full-force. “Who said that? Show yourself!”

_As I’m in England for the moment, I can’t. I’m using a telepathy-enhancer to reach you. My name is Charles Xavier. I’m the one your friend heard._

Logan starts up the car. “Bub, I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, but the kid’s not my friend.”

“I’m not a kid either!” grinds Scott from the backseat. He reaches through to the front, with a bit of patting around, to punch Logan’s shoulder.

_Regardless, I will make sure your travel is safe. I am eager to meet you three._

The voice stops. Logan looks in the rear-view mirror at Marie. “Did you hear that?”

“No…” she says, eyes darting around. “Is someone going to arrest us?”

Logan cracks his neck from side to side. “Not if I can help it.”

*

Just like the weird, British voice in Logan’s head said, they didn’t face any more angry border police. Or any other police for that matter. They’re somewhere in England, driving aimlessly. Logan knew following a voice would be a stupid idea, he just couldn’t pinpoint the main reason until now: they never got an address.

Logan has just enough cash left (from savings, not from stealing) to book them a cheap motel room. It’s a bit mouldy and crowded for the three of them but they don’t have any other options, really. Marie is pulling off her socks when she suddenly freezes; Scott’s shoulders straighten mid sip from a water bottle. Then, after Logan is thoroughly freaked out, his back hunched and ready for an attack, he hears the voice.

_I will be sending out my student, Hank, to escort you to my home. He shall be there in less than thirty minutes._

Logan’s the only one lucid enough to ask: _And how are we supposed to know who Hank is?_

 _He’ll introduce himself, of course._ There’s a twinge in Logan’s mind that he guesses might be a laugh coming from Charles’s end.

\---

True to his word, there’s a knock on their motel room door twenty five minutes later. Marie is holding Scott’s hand – with her gloves on, obviously; not that Logan knows what that’s about – as she leads him to the door, following Logan. He raises an arm, peering in the peephole.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Hank McCoy. Charles Xavier sent me to pick up three mutants.”

Logan throws the door open. “You can’t just say shit like that in the open. Who knows who could be listening?” He expects to look down at Hank, but they are eye-to-eye. “Wow, you’re tall.”

“Part of my mutation, perhaps,” says Hank, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you…?”

“Logan.” He brushes past Hank, gesturing for Marie to follow. “So where’re we going?”

“To Charles’s home, he cleaned up three guest bedrooms for you,” explains Hank, as he jogs after Logan who doesn’t even pay him any mind as he dashes to the parking lot behind the motel. He whispers to Marie as she approaches, “Is he always like this?”

“I haven’t known him that long,” she drawls, “but I’m guessing yes.”

“I think so too,” mutters Scott.

“I heard you,” says Logan. He turns to face Hank. “Which car is it? I’m driving.”

“But you don’t even know—”

“Let me make this clear: I’m driving, and you’re telling me how to get there.” He puts a hand out, waiting for the keys. He’s not taking any chances, no matter how innocent this Hank kid is or how nice Charles may seem. Everyone can change in a second.

“All right,” says Hank, fishing the keys from his slack’s pocket. “Here.”

“Let’s go, I’m starving.”

“Shotgun!” yells Marie, tugging Scott by the wrist to make him walk faster.

 

*

Charles greets them at the door, with handshakes for each of them. Hank shows them upstairs to their rooms; Marie takes the one in the middle, leaving Logan to take the one on the left and Scott on the right. Showing Scott into his room, Charles tells Logan to help himself downstairs.

So far so good, Logan thinks, glancing around at the authentic chandeliers and Victorian staircase. It’s a nice place, he’ll give them that. Not a dungeon or basement in sight. There were some mutants out in the grass, but they seemed pretty relaxed too.

You can always get a sense of a place by how the people are interacting with it.

\---

Logan’s stomach has a voice of its own right now; it growls and roars and pulls him toward the smell of food – of which there is plenty. He whips up some peanut butter toast and some high quality caffeine, just the thing to get his blood pumping back to normal. He takes a seat at the long kitchen island of ivory marble.

It’s right after a bite of toast, the steaming cup of coffee halfway to his mouth to wash it down, that Logan sees the familiar ray of red flow out of the second floor window. The growl is out of his throat before he has a chance to process that there’s also a niggling little voice telling him _Not to worry, Logan, I was only allowing Scott to see what he’d been missing in the garden_.

 _Well, thanks for the heads up. Now I got coffee all over my favourite jeans._ He sweeps the hot liquid off as quickly as he can, groaning at how it reminds him of those kids and the nightmares he used to get in the dead of night.

 _I’m sure it’s nothing a little soap can’t fix._ And there’s the twinge again; this damn telepath is laughing at his expense. His chest rumbles as he finishes off his toast. It doesn’t even matter: the bread was fresh, the kids are happier, and he can make another damn cup of coffee. He’ll make all the goddamn coffee if he has to, just to make himself feel better.

_I see you’re feeling at ease already._

_Stop reading my mind, Charles!_ Logan groans, throwing his dirty plate in the sink.

*

Even with five cups of coffee in his system, Logan sleeps for a day and a half. And when he wakes up, Scott’s knocking at his door with sunglasses on.

He raises a brow, scratching at the scruff on his chin. “Got a hangover?”

“No, this is just temporary until Hank makes me some better ones.” Scott stares Logan down, not saying anything else.

“Is there a reason you woke me up?” he finally asks, leaning a shoulder against the door-frame.

“No. I just wanted to see if you were dead so we could switch rooms,” he says, leaving Logan to fume on his lonesome. The fucking ungrateful kid. He’s prickly is what he is. A _prick_. He slams the door shut and goes back to bed.

\---

They don’t get along well. They are _mediocre_ at behaving in each other’s presence; Scott is uptight and guards his kid brother, Alex, like a hawk. When he isn’t, he’s reading up on genetic mutation and being a suck-ass to Charles, “The Professor.” Or whatever the hell Hank insists on calling him. He’s barely thirty!

Logan goes out in the garden to watch Sean and Alex bounce beams and sonar at each other. They look like they’re playing a game the way it’s deflected or negated so easily, neither of them getting a scratch on them. He lights his cigar, feeling comfortable and relaxed.

That’s, obviously, when Scott decides to run outside, frantic. “Alex! Be careful, what are you doing?”

Logan, like an idiot, sticks his arm out and stops Scott from seeing his little brother. “Relax, bub. They’re just training. They’ll need to know this stuff if Stryker’s still alive.”

Scott seethes and grabs Logan’s arm, folding it back. It nearly hurts, except that he doesn’t have the training to pose a real threat. “I’d suggest letting go before you break something,” grumbles Logan, puffing out cigar smoke in Scott’s face.

That does the trick. The kid is red in the face, touching the corner of his cheap sunglasses, ready to let a blast go through Logan. He stops, takes three breaths and goes back inside. It’s not quite the rough and tumble Logan was expecting; it’s kind of disappointing actually.

He groans, butting out his cigar. He’s not in a good mood anymore.

\---

Dinnertime rolls around. Logan can eat as much as three mutants (he knows this precisely since he watched what Sean, Alex and Hank eat). Charles doesn’t have the interest in learning recipes – too busy sticking his tongue down Erik’s throat if you ask Logan – so he orders some food from a local grill place.

Meat, meat and more meat – just the way Logan likes it. Not to mention he got a whole chicken to himself.

“Thanks, Charles,” he says, muffled. His mouth was full the second he sat down.

Everyone else seems used to his bad etiquette; maybe because they know he’s more beast than “Beast.” On the other hand, Scott’s look of disgust remains stuck to his face during the entire meal. Sean burps and giggles with Raven about it; Marie hides her smile when Logan joins in on the burping, letting out a wild belch of his own.

Scott pushes his chair out. All their eyes turn to him. “I’m eating in my room.”

Charles touches his temple, telling him something. Logan stares to see if it will work. It doesn’t. Scott keeps walking, all the way out until his footsteps are heard up in the higher levels, where the bedrooms are. So his threats aren’t idle, that’s good to know. Logan won’t push him too far, then.

“I thought it was funny,” murmurs Alex, shrugging a shoulder.

“It is when you’re ten years old,” Erik says with an eye-roll.

Logan sucks his teeth, and when Erik looks his way, he tells him, “I had a piece of bone stuck in my gums.” His pinky dips in his mouth to demonstrate. “Got a toothpick somewhere in your turtleneck?”

“You know where they are,” says Charles, frowning. _Don’t upset Erik as well. He’s not quite as kind as Scott is._

Sighing, Logan stands up to get a toothpick in the cupboard. _Yeah, fine. But he started it._

 _I’ll speak to him about it later._ Charles touches Erik’s shoulder, giving him a soft smile.

It’s almost enough to make Logan lose his appetite; they’re so damn mushy and obvious with their affection. He thanks God he doesn’t have to hear them banging each other’s brains out, because he wouldn’t be able to stay here much longer.

\---

Guess what? He walked in on them banging each other’s brains out. Well, Erik fucking Charles up against the wall to be more precise. He wishes he hadn’t. He also wishes he could be unborn. Maybe crawl back up his mother’s uterus and just stay in there for another nine months, forget he ever saw these two lovebirds panting and sweating. It was just a mess all over the room.

It wasn’t even late at night! What’s wrong with these people? He needs a cigar.

Down the hall, right near the library, Alex is grinning like he’s found a million dollars. He’s so focused on Hank who’s doing push ups further, that he doesn’t hear Logan walk up behind him. He jumps a foot when he gets tapped on the shoulder. “What’s up?” asks Logan, wearing a grin of his own.

Alex swallows, crossing his arms. He looks around, even up at the ceiling – like that somehow makes him less guilty, poor kid. “I – what? Nothing. Nothing. Just, you know.” He waves an arm. “Yep. I’m gonna –” He points somewhere outside. “Sean’s probably waiting for me.”

Logan nods, laughing under his breath. “Sure, go do that.” Now, _now_ , he’s in the mood for a good cigar. That was priceless. Would it be too cruel to tell Hank that Alex has a giant, skyscraper-sized crush on him? _Nah_.

He raises his voice, just as Alex shuts the front door. “Hey Hank, you should let Alex see you shirtless. That would really get things moving between you!”

Hank chokes on his disbelief, falling during his next push-up, right on his face. “Wh-what?”

“Nothing! Keep up the good work! Alex agrees you’re looking great,” he says, heading outside for the best smoke of his life.

\---

“Bozo!” says Alex, nudging Hank as they walk down the hall together. Logan is just making his way down the first step from the second floor, and decides to wait there instead of going down to tease them. He’ll give them a moment.

“I thought you stopped saying that,” says Hank, shoving Alex. “I even redesigned your costume twice.”

“Yeah, I know. I appreciate it, but it doesn’t mean I’ll stop calling you bozo.” He pats his shoulder. “You’re just a bozo.”

“Stop,” says Hank, walking into the recreation room.

Logan sneaks down the stairs and peeks around the corner. He didn’t even know they had a rec room; pool tables and video games, flat screen TVs. How did he miss this? Not that he can use any of it right now.

“Wanna play a match with me?” asks Alex, setting up a triangle for them on the pool table.

Hank nods, and then seems to think better of it. “You know what? I don’t want to hang out with you unless you stop calling me bozo.”

Alex gapes. “But it’s the perfect—”

Hank shakes his head and takes a few steps, as if leaving. Logan rushes around the corner to not be spotted, just in case.

“Fine! Can I call you Beast?”

The footsteps stop, they move away. Logan sneaks back to the room to look inside. Hank has Alex pinned to the pool table with his entire body, grabbing his legs to wrap around his waist. He’s breathless when he whispers, “Yeah that works, Havoc.”

Logan snorts so loud that Hank faces in his direction and growls. He takes off through the mansion and out the door, all the way through the field where Sean is training so he can force him to give an alibi if he needs one later.

There might be a few people whose buttons he likes to push, but Hank is not one of them.

*

Logan is searching for Scott when he comes across Hank and Alex speaking in hushed tones in the kitchen. Right when he was drooling over the thought of a tuna, pickle and salami sandwich. His timing is terrible, or perfect depending on how much blackmail material you like to have.

Alex is nuzzling close to Hank’s chest, whispering, “Beast, dude, I’m so horny I’d let you take me on the counter.”

Typical of bespectacled Hank, he flushes from his neck to his cheekbones. “I- I don’t think Charles would appreciate that.”

“I want you, though. I need you,” says Alex, nibbling at Hank’s earlobe.

Logan’s gag reflex is protesting right now, a dry heave the only thing he manages. It’s a safe reaction; they don’t hear a thing.

“What if I turn blue during …you know? I can’t control it all the time,” Hank says. He touches Alex like he’s made of porcelain, dragging his fingertips along his jaw and cheekbones. “That can’t be enjoyable for you.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re so hot as the beast. I think that’s when I kinda fell in love with you.” He kisses Hank, moaning loud enough that Logan wants to abandon ship and sink like the Titanic.

“L-love? You love me?” Hank holds Alex at a distance, both of them crowded against the fridge door.

“Of course I love you, bozo!” Alex winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say it.”

“No, no in this case I think you were right to use it.” He twines their fingers over Alex’s head, sliding their hips together and kissing the snark straight out of him.

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” says Logan, clapping loudly. “Now, can you go do this dirty shit in your room so I can make a goddamn sandwich?”

They don’t need him to say it twice.

*

Marie has no time for anyone, save for Raven. They do not separate; they are more than two peas in a pod. They’re two grains of rice in a rice cooker, or something witty that there are two of. Logan is not always clever with words. He’s good with his fists, and his hips (fucking, that means fucking).

Scott sulks in his room a lot more because Alex is too busy tonguing the hell out of Hank – and that disgusting image is now seared into Logan’s brain since they ended up fucking in the kitchen two days after he caught them groping in there. Erik and Charles, when they aren’t busy smooching, are out marketing the mansion as some sort of an oasis for mutants, freaks and geeks. No one has shown up yet, really. It’s not surprising to Logan.

None of it bothers Logan; he’s okay with spending time with Sean. Sean’s a cool kid; probably smokes a lot of drugs, but he’s still a nice kid. He’s carefree most of the time. Then, he’s gone, with his room still filled enough that he could have gone to the corner store for milk.

Logan asks Charles in the kitchen, “Where’d Sean go?”

“Ah, yes. He often travels. He’s still discovering himself.” Charles pours some milk into his tea. “We experienced a tragedy not long ago and I think he took it the hardest.”

“Lost someone?”

“Indeed.” Holding the pot, he asks, “Would you like some?”

“No thanks. I’m a coffee man. Got any in the machine?”

“I think there may be—” Charles freezes, his blue eyes widening. He stands stock still, staring off into oblivion.

“Professor?” He can’t believe he just said that, but it’s a serious situation and that’s the first thing that came to mind. “Professor, are you okay?”

Charles blinks slowly, nodding as he places his cup on the counter. “Two mutants will be arriving shortly. They’ve escaped from Stryker’s facility as well.”

Logan narrows his eyes. “How shortly?”

The front door knocks twice, as if on cue.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Logan.

\---

Logan is standing a few feet behind Charles when he opens the doors for the new mutants. They are both wide-eyed and beautiful, but the redhead is a bit of something else. She looks wild, untamed; her hear hanging past her shoulders. The other girl is slightly shorter, but ethereal in appearance – with white hair and bronze skin. They both look like they stepped out of a catalogue rather than from the middle of the woods (judging by the smell of oak and dirt clinging to their clothes).

Scott must have been lurking in the shadows, because he pushes past Logan and Charles, and everyone else who’s slowly coming out of the woodwork. He smiles at them like he’s the welcoming committee, and Charles is smiling back at him like he agrees…

Is he that sulky about Alex that he kissed Charles’s ass until he agreed to let him befriend the next mutant that showed up?

Anyway, he says, “I’m Scott.” He extends a hand to Jean first. Typical that he and Logan have the same taste in girls, isn’t it?

Her face lights up with a soft smile. “Jean,” she says softly. Completely different than Logan expected; she had a fierce look in her eye when she stepped in, like she was ready to kill everyone in the mansion if it turned out to be a set-up. What’s not to like about Jean? A woman after his own heart.

Scott shakes the white haired girl’s hand next. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ororo Munroe,” she says in an accented tone. It’s lyrical almost. She’s something special herself. Her posture is more relaxed as well once she touches Scott’s hand.

Maybe he has some kind of puppy dog thing going for him that puts other people at ease around him; it must have worked on Marie too, because she was holding his hand after one day. It’s aggravating is what it is.

Logan clears his throat. “I’m Logan.” And for some reason, he can’t figure out what to do with his hands so he kind of salutes them with two fingers. Awkward doesn’t even begin to explain how it looks.

But Jean laughs, walking over to him. She even puts a hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

Ororo keeps a distance, but smiles from behind her. “Yes, pleased to meet you.”

Then, Hank is in charge of assigning their rooms – basically, letting them choose the rooms they want – and everyone else goes about their day as if nothing has changed. Charles and Erik head outside with Sean (since he’s going on another of his missions); Alex sneaks up the stairs after Hank (probably planning to have sex on another surface they shouldn’t); and Raven and Marie take some equipment from the training room outside to work with.

Everyone figures out what to do, that is – everyone except Logan and Scott.

When Charles is far enough, Scott points a finger in Logan’s face, going for menacing. He’s not too good at it. “I saw her first.”

“Technically, I did, but whatever,” says Logan, shrugging. “Not like you stand a chance with her.”

“I’ll have you know, I do very well with women.” He fixes his dark shades, that same old ‘I’ll blast you to the past’ threat again. It wasn’t scary the first time, and it certainly isn’t _now_ that he knows what a Boy Scout Scott is.

“Listen, bub, it’s a free country.” He crosses his arms, leaning a shoulder on the bannister of the staircase. “If she wants you, she can have you. But if she wants me, then you can’t do nothing about it.”

“We’ll see,” grinds Scott, rushing up the stairs, nearly tripping in frustration. That gets a low chuckle out of Logan.

\---

It’s probably close to midnight when he hears a female voice swirling around in his head; it doesn’t feel anything like when the Professor does it. It’s somehow more intense, more involved, untamed. It must mean she can’t control her abilities as well yet.

He folds his arms behind his head, sighing as he gets comfortable in his bed. This might be a while, if it’s about what he thinks it is.

_Logan, I overheard you and Scott. I’m not interested in either of you._

He can’t say he’s not disappointed she doesn’t even find him slightly interesting, but he expected that. She’s had a tough time with Ororo. _I was just busting his balls. I’m in no rush to get into a relationship, sweetheart._

A zip of confusion tingles in his mind. She thought he was serious about wanting to date her. Well, he might have been in a couple of years. _Then why did you -- oh!_

A regurgitation of his own thoughts is thrown back in his mind, as if he didn’t already know they were floating around aimlessly in there somewhere. He didn’t need Jean’s reminder of the simple fact that he…might _really_ like the Boy Scout with the short fuse.

_Scott sleeping in the back seat of the pick-up, his soft pink lips parted as he breathes deeply. Marie’s head on his shoulder, both of them curled around each other like an extra layer of protection, both of them relying on Logan._

_Scott stepping out of the motel room shower with his hair damp, sticking to his forehead, and his shirt clinging because he didn’t dry his skin enough before he slid on an undershirt. His jaw tight when Logan raises a brow at him, not with humour but with interest. But of course Scott takes it as criticism and snaps, “I was in a rush, okay?” Deep down, Logan isn’t complaining because he didn’t know Scott had that much definition in his chest and arms with all the layers he wears._

_Scott’s eyes almost getting revealed to him in Stryker’s facility as he goes ballistic and blows every wall down with a primal scream that does more for Logan’s animal instincts than porn ever could. In that moment of wild, freeing resistance, Scott is a raw nerve being pushed too far, snapped too tight, and he explodes in the air like an organic machine gun. Logan the only one lucky enough (or dumb enough) to get to witness it up-close._

One (or all) of those memories made his pulse speed up, and he’s breathing hard as he sends Jean: _yeah, oh._ This is one of those times he’s glad no one’s there in person; would be embarrassing as hell to close the conversation after a revelation like that.

_Well, goodnight then. Sleep well, Logan._

Logan turns on his side to shut off the lamp. He can still see better than other mutants can in the dark, but it helps him to strengthen his hearing when he isn’t relying on his sight.

_Goodnight, Jean._

He drags his shirt over his head, flinging it across his room. One second, two: he’s not tired. He’s not tired, and he’s frustrated now because he’s turned on, and Scott is into Jean more than anyone else. Not that he blames him. She’s beautiful, strong and not afraid to put people in their place.

But doesn’t that describe him, too? Scott is an idiot if he doesn’t see what he’s missing.

Logan tries to sleep again, but those same images keep coming back to the surface. Every time he’s about to pass out, he pictures Scott’s mouth or the shirt clinging to him. Or worse, that one time Scott stepped out of the bathroom with his pants undone and his boxer briefs were sticking out, just enough to give Logan ideas about his hips and lower down.

Well, shit. That’s not helping him sleep any faster. Then it hits him –

Maybe if he thinks hard enough… _Hey Jean?_

There’s no answer for a minute, then comes: _Yes, Logan?_

 _Can you help me out with something?_ But instead of telling her, he shows her.

The ticklish feel of her laughing strokes inside his brain. _Good idea, then?_ he asks her.

_Oh, yes. This is gonna be fun. Sleep well now._

*

Just as planned, he walks up behind Jean in the kitchen, leaning purposely close for whenever Scott decides to wake up and come downstairs for breakfast. She’s giggling and flipping her hair, but playing hard to get – on purpose. It’s necessary for this to work. She turns around, hands on her hips.

“Logan, I’m trying to make breakfast,” she says with a tight-lipped smile. Her acting is off-the-charts, and if he didn’t know better himself, he’d be afraid to push further. But he knows that he has to.

“Come on,” he coos, touching her shoulder.

She shoves his hand away, giving him an icy look. “I’m not interested, Logan.”

He sits down on a bench on the other side of the kitchen island, scooping up cereal with his spoon. Scott zooms into the kitchen, whispering something to Jean, his eyebrows doing that wavy thing they do when he’s being sweet and understanding. Basically, the best puppy expression he can muster. Not that anyone can see his eyes to get the full effect (that might just destroy people’s sanity if they did).

Jean nods, whispering something back. She tells Logan, _I said that you were bothering me and you wouldn’t stop flirting_.

It’s difficult to keep himself from snorting his cereal on the next bite since Scott has a look of sheer terror on his face as he glances towards him. He clears his throat, and Jean scurries out of the kitchen with a glass of milk and a banana. She’s giggling inside of Logan’s mind again; she needs to stop before he cracks up and ruins the plan.

Scott sits at the island, across from Logan. His face is even more unreadable than usual, and it sends a shiver up Logan’s spine. This is going to work, he can tell already, and it’s going to be _epic_.

Still sitting quietly, Scott leans forward, his elbows on the marble. “Why are you bothering her? You can clearly see she’s not interested.”

Logan sighs, letting a slow smirk creep onto his face. Here come the guns. “Kid, you have no idea what she’s interested in.”

“I’m not a kid!” he says, slamming his palms down hard on the countertop. “And she told me you wouldn’t stop flirting.”

“And?” Logan says, chewing his cereal slowly and as elaborately as he can. His eyes are lidded with feigned irritation.

Scott’s face is turning red; he’s so easy to push and pull around. When Logan takes another spoonful, Scott lunges and grabs him by the collar of his leather jacket. He’s practically hissing out, “If you even so much as touch her, look at her mouth or call her by anything other than her name, I will slice your insides up until you can’t be put back together again.”

That – that’s a bit more intense than he was expecting, but hey: it got a rise out of him. He waits until Scott lets go and he’s allowed to take his cereal into his mouth to mutter out a muffled, “I’m shaking in my boots.”

“You should be,” snaps Scott, storming out of the kitchen.

As soon as he’s gone, Logan puffs out a long breath, wiping his forehead. The smile that breaks across his face nearly hurts his jaw; that went so much better than he expected. He’s convinced that Logan just wants to get into Jean’s pants, and his threats are always a delightful thrill – because Logan knows they aren’t idle. They are never _idle_. It’s been a short while since he’s seen Scott’s eyegasm (that’s what he calls it secretly), and he’s itching to see it again.

\---

Phase two of the plan happens the next day, around lunch time. She’s cautious as she flits from one mind to the next, to the next, searching for Scott’s whereabouts. She grins when she approaches Logan in the training room, “He should be here in a couple minutes.”

Logan feels his throat go dry. He hasn’t been this nervous since…since, _well_ , his wife. God rest her soul. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely. He’s carrying a towel over his shoulder.” She smiles, fixing Logan’s brown points of hair, dabbing the sweat from his face and giving him a thumbs up. “It’ll work. I know it will.”

“What if it doesn’t?” he asks, pressing his forehead to hers. He closes his eyes against the flutter in his stomach.

She strokes his cheek with her thumb. “Then he’s in denial because I saw the way he treats the others. You’re special to him. He just needs you to show him.” She pulls back abruptly. “Okay. Showtime.”

Jean picks up a weight, about 10lbs, and lifts it. She does a few sets with the right hand, then switches to the left. Behind her, Logan is sitting on a mat, doing crunches. He shifts his expression into the sleaziest one he can make when Jean starts doing squats.

Scott takes that exact second to step into the room. He freezes, glancing over Jean’s shoulder at the raunchy look Logan has. Her back is to Logan so from his point of view, she has no idea what Logan’s doing – but of course she _does_.

With his gym bag over his shoulder, Scott takes a bench and lies on his back. He sets up the weights and starts to bench-press. Jean glances behind at Logan, shrugging a shoulder. _What now?_

_Now we up the ante. He thinks everything’s fine._

_Are you sure that’s a good idea?_

_What other choice do I have?_

_All right then._

Jean takes a seat on a different mat and Logan scoots forward, following her. He taps her shoulder. “Need help stretching?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine. I can do it by myself. Thanks.”

Logan shifts even closer, getting into her personal space, even atop her blue mat. “Are you sure? I’ve had a lot of training in the military.”

She hums, considering. “You know what? Sure.”

“Okay, lie on your back. We’ll do your legs first.” He helps her fold her legs to her chest, his body weight pressing down to give her thighs a good pull. “Tell me if it hurts.”

She makes a pained sound, shaking her head. “No, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” he presses into the other leg, his hand sliding down her thigh. Scott coughs behind them; jean nearly can’t hold in the burst of laughter she wants to let her. She turns her head to the side to muffle it against the mat.

“It’s working,” she whispers to Logan.

“Told you it would,” he whispers back. “Now do something so I can go to the next step.

Jean lets her leg go and drops it to the side, making Logan fall directly on top of her. Nothing is separating them. For a brief second, she’s out of breath, and he is too. He considers his options: keep going with this plan and have the bratty, Boy Scout named Scott or…

There’s no or – Jean can never be Scott for Logan. He pushes in close and drops a kiss on her open mouth. She groans in protest, her arms flailing. Just as expected, Scott bolts from the bench and throws Logan off of Jean. He helps her up slowly, checking her up and down.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Jean nods. “I’m fine. He just kissed me.”

“He kiss – he _kissed_ you?” snarls Scott. His head whips around to face Logan, who is looking smug with his hands on his hips and no shirt on. “You kissed her? Even after what I told you?”

“Four-Eyes, you can’t keep me from doing what I want,” says Logan, jutting out his hip. He knows how good these grey jogging pants make his bottom half look. He hopes it works on Scott.

Too bad Scott has other plans. He throws over his shoulder, “Get out, Jean. I have to do something.”

Logan grins, stepping closer to Scott. This must be the big moment. His chance to finally get his mouth on all that pale skin, and those plump, red lips –

Scott pulls off his glasses and bellows so loud the window shatters before the laser even starts shooting from his eyes. In the nick of time, Logan throws himself across the room, dodging the first blast. Another comes a second later with Scott still screaming his lungs out, “How could you! I trusted you!”

The blast shatters equipment, bounces off the metal weights and rips through concrete, cement, the ceiling cracks down the middle. It gets so bad that Logan hears the rest of the mansion screaming and running out one by one. He has to do something.

Logan starts to stand but Scott lurches forward, his blast somehow getting wider, taking down the whole wall and door where they entered from. It extends down the hall, disintegrating bannisters, doorways, chandeliers, anything in its path.

“Scott, you need to calm down,” tries Logan, bent down on one knee.

Scott’s laugh is brittle, harsh, even painful for Logan to hear. He aims his next blast at the floor below Logan, trying to get him to crash through. But before he manages, Hank tackles him from behind in beast form, jumping out the window with him.

Logan jumps out after them, watching as they roll and tumble through the grass in the yard. The rest of the mutants are standing around, covering their mouths. Jean and Ororo are hidden behind Charles and Erik, and the look in Jean’s eyes nearly breaks his heart. She’s going to blame herself for this; she doesn’t need to. It was his idiotic plan. Besides, he wanted to see the eyegasm, and now he’s seen enough for a lifetime.

Hank has his claws dug into Scott’s abdomen, trying to distract him with enough pain so he’ll have to shut his eyes, but instead he throws his head around, the beam nearly slicing everyone else in half – including his brother Alex. Then, he headbutts Hank, successfully breaking free of his hold.

Logan can’t just stand there with his mouth hanging open anymore; he has to do something. This is all his fault. “Scott, bud, it’s okay,” he tells him. He waves at everyone else to get as far as they can.

“It’s not okay!” The steady stream of red keeps shooting from his eyes, slicing right through Logan, like he promised he would. Just like Logan knew he could.

The fear grips him down to his soles, but he steps forward. If he’s going to fall apart – literally – then he’s okay with it being because of Scott, the Boy Scout, with his soft features and stuffy way of dressing. He’s okay with this because Scott doesn’t deserve to feel the pain he is; he should have known better than to toy with someone who had been in Stryker’s captivity for who knows how long. It was cruel of him. This is the proper punishment. Luckily, he can feel his insides stitching back together – but that doesn’t mean Scott stops.

He aims at all the vital organs while Logan marches forward: stomach, liver, lungs – which knocks Logan back a step, his eyes tearing up from the loss of oxygen. Scott saves scorching his heart for last, shouting, “I trusted you! I thought you understood. I thought you realized!”

Logan is standing so close now he can cup Scott’s betrayed face. Hank stands a few steps away, waiting to pounce if he needs to, but Logan shakes his head at him, and he backs off. He leaves them to face this alone.

Once they’re alone, Logan’s surprised to notice Scott’s eyes are blue. This close to him, even with the searing pain in his chest, as if Scott is trying to burn his heart out so he can never use it again, he can see the blue behind the ray of red still slicing through his insides. He holds his face close, trembling because of the agony that’s not ending. His thumbs press against Scott’s perfect cheekbones, and he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to go this far. I’m sorry. It’s you I wanted, not her. Never her.”

Scott squeezes his eyes closed, a single tear sliding down his cheek. He crumples to his knees, shattered and most likely drained from how much power he used. When his shoulders start shaking, Logan kneels down with him, hissing because of the pain in his chest. He strokes Scott’s hair back, hushing him. “It’s okay, kid. I’m an idiot too.”

Managing a faint, “I’m not a kid.” Scott wraps his arms around Logan’s middle. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

He winces and Scott starts to pull back. Logan growls and forces him in close, curling his body around him despite the stabbing pain. “I should have said something sooner I guess.”

“So you don’t like Jean?” murmurs Scott, burying his face in Logan’s neck. The knees of pants are starting to get grass stains, and that makes Logan laugh. This whole situation is just so…surreal.

“I like her all right, she’s a babe. But I’ve already got a thing for you, bub.” He nudges Scott’s chin so he can kiss his eyelids. Scott doesn’t open his eyes once, even though they flutter from the touch. His cheeks turn a soft red as he begins to smile. “Don’t play coy, you know you’re attractive.”

Scott finally laughs, dragging his lips along Logan’s stubble until he can reach his mouth. It’s an awkward first kiss - their lips not quite in sync and Scott making Logan yelp when he accidently pokes him in his chest – but it’s not one they’ll soon forget either.

Hank pushes Scott’s glasses into Logan’s jogging pants’ pocket. He doesn’t let Scott put them on until he’s learned every square inch of his mouth first.

*

It wasn’t fair of him to gag about Hank and Alex and their mushy, lovey-dovey bullshit; it’s actually pretty rewarding when the person you’re doing it with keeps blushing and dotting on you like you’re some kind of royalty. It also helps that he’s still recovering from the hole Scott put through his chest.

“I’m really sorry,” murmurs Scott. He’s lying half on top of Logan, dragging a finger up and down his chest, as if it will have some kind of soothing, reversing effect. Basically, it just feels nice.

“I know, bud,” says Logan. He kisses the bridge of Scott’s nose because it’s all he can reach at this angle without having to fold his body and get another stabbing pain in his middle.

Scott’s smart enough to shuffle upward, though, and they kiss on the lips. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

“I’ll be fine in less than a day,” he says, ruffling Scott’s hair. “You should go help with repairs. Maybe apologize to your brother for nearly cutting him in half.”

There’s a gurgling noise in the back of Scott’s throat. He pulls out of the kiss with a smack. “Don’t remind me. He’s never going to let me live that down.”

“I’m never going to let you live that down,” teases Logan, rubbing his thigh against Scott’s.

Scott buries his face in Logan’s chest. His muffled, “I don’t know why I love you,” makes Logan want to giggle like a schoolgirl, but that would kill his reputation.

He tells Scott, “It’s because of my full head of hair and gentle personality.”

“That helps,” laughs Scott. He nibbles Logan’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go see what I can do to help.” He strokes Logan’s hair off his forehead. “You get some rest.”

“I will.” He smiles, his eyes never straying from Scott as he bounces off the bed and walks out the room in his new, tight jeans. “Right after I jerk off to that cute, little ass,” he says already popping the button on his pants.

\---

There’s a booming voice that Logan doesn’t recognize, and it wakes him up. Scott is asleep on top of him, some plaster in the hair above his brow. Logan chuckles and wipes it away. “Rise and shine, kid.”

“Not a kid,” grumbles Scott, yawning. He digs around on the bedside table for his glasses before he leans in to kiss Logan. “Want some breakfast? I think Thor’s brother can zap in some food easy.”

“Who’s Thor now?” he asks, raising a brow. “Is it your new boyfriend?”

“What?” Even with the shades on, Logan can see his incredulous expression. “Have you seriously never heard of the Avengers? They saved New York not long ago.”

“I guess I missed that,” he says, stretching his arms above his head. “Anyway, speedy breakfast sounds good. I’ll be down in a second.”

Scott wiggles on top of Logan, pinning his arms above his head for a sloppy, morning kiss. “Okay, don’t take too long.”

\---

Scott failed to mention that some blonde guy named Captain America was also in the kitchen, and that they’ve all been helping with repairs while he’s been simultaneously jerking off and thinking about how soon he can see Scott’s little rump up-close and personal.

Logan looks them up and down. First of all, Thor and Loki look nothing alike – beyond both being really tall and stupidly handsome. Secondly, Captain America is way too patriotic of a name, and he hopes that’s not what it says on his birth certificate. For his sake. He seems like a nice kid.

Likewise, they all eye Logan as well. That must trigger a possessive nerve in Scott because he steps in front of Logan and seals his lips over his, adding moaning noises and wiggling hips to the already dirty mix. He pulls off with a grin, whispering, “You’re mine now.”

Logan can’t argue with that. “Definitely,” he says with a filthy smirk. “Why don’t I show you just how much?” It’s not like these three giants need his help. They probably already fixed the mansion with their weirdo powers or whatever they do. (He should probably look up the Avengers after he’s done tearing Scott’s inhibitions down.)

\---

(They were finished fixing the mansion already as it turns out. So they heard every single moan and cry that slipped out of Scott’s mouth as Logan fucked the jealousy right out of him for two hours straight. They only stopped to share a water bottle.)

\---

They ask him to join the Avengers while they’re sitting on the front steps drinking coffee – whatever that is. (He still hasn’t had time to google them, okay? Scott’s been very, very needy.) And he says, “I’ll pass for now. I’m okay with my untitled position here at the mansion.”

Plus, what if they make him wear weird clothes like they do? They don’t even match for crying out loud.

The Captain guy – _Steve?_ \- seems disappointed. “Oh, I understand. Well, if you ever change your mind I’ll leave Tony Stark’s number with you.”

That name rings some bells. “ _The_ Tony Stark? That billionaire douche?”

Steve laughs, glancing at Thor who is grinning too. “That’s the one. He’s part of the Avengers.”

“Huh,” says Logan, scratching his chin. Go figure a guy that rich becoming a superhero. Maybe their team isn’t so bad after all. “I’ll think it over.”

“I appreciate it,” says Steve, shaking Logan’s hand. He bumps Thor’s shoulder with his own, standing up. “Wanna go for a run?”

“Certainly, Captain.” Thor jumps up from his spot, twisting his shoulder this way and that way.

“See you later,” says Steve, and they jog away.

Scott takes the steps two at a time until he’s pressed right up against Logan. He leans his chin on his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“I think those two are fucking,” he mutters, reaching around to scrape his nails down Scott’s nape.

“Mmm. Does it matter?” He twists his head to pepper kisses along Logan’s jaw.

“You’re completely right.” He picks up Scott so fast the wind is knocked out of him, throwing him over his shoulder. “I’d rather think about _us_ fucking.”

Scott blushes a bright red, covering his face as he laughs all the way back to their bedroom. Logan makes sure to smack his ass whenever someone tries to ask what he’s doing or stares for too long. That gets them looking away so fast they must get whiplash.

Except Sean who just keeps chewing his gum, feet up on the armrest of the couch. “You guys are a thing now, huh?” He pops his gum. “That’s cool.”

That gives Logan pause; he forgot Sean left before… _that_ epic thing happened (and no he doesn’t mean their marathon sex – get your mind out of the gutter). He stops, Scott still over his shoulder, and says, “How did your mission go?”

Sean shrugs, banging his socked feet together. “Same as usual. People outside of the mansion are pretty boring.”

“You’re telling me,” says Logan, pointing to Scott and his frenzied kicking. “Did you meet those three guys yet? Those Avengers or whatever?”

“Who?” asks Sean, scratching his cheek.

“Oh my god!” protests Scott. “Put me down if you’re gonna socialize right now.”

“Sorry.” He waves to Sean and continues his trek up the stairs to their room.

\---

There are a few things that make Scott drop his pants without a protest. One, is being told how beautiful he is. He usually will throw his pants at Logan in that case, and tell him, “Shut up and fuck me already!” The next is seeing Logan after a long workout, getting ready to shower. Something about the grime and sweat makes him kick out of his pants, rip his shirt apart and barrel into Logan, knocking them both into the shower with their socks still on.

The last, and Logan’s favourite, is when he knows people could catch them at any second. In those instances – like right now, with his thighs spread and his cock pressed to his stomach, leaving slick trails as Logan fingers him right on the library table – he doesn’t want foreplay or even to kiss, he just wants to be fucked and then to sneak away like the cat who got the canary.

“Come on, do it,” he moans, eyes squeezed tight.

Logan leans over him and steals the glasses away that Hank made for him. “Only if you’re a good boy.”

Scott grinds against the wood of the library table like his life depends on it, whimpering and pressing his fingers into the edges. “I’m always a good boy.”

“I disagree, but right now you are, I’ll give you that.” Logan hovers over Scott, praying that the table can take their weight combined. He waits a second; it creaks but nothing else. Good to go. “Spread your legs a bit more.” He taps his thighs.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he whines, licking his own shoulder, spreading himself wide and digging his heels in Logan’s ass.

Logan’s jeans are hanging below his ass, his underwear pushed just low enough to get his cock out, and he knows if anyone caught them like this, they could be in some serious trouble. That’s the fun of it. “Hold your horses.”

“I’d rather hold my cock while you fuck me!” says Scott.

Logan bites his nipple, lining himself up. “You’ve got a filthy mouth, you know that?”

“It’s because of all the come you put in it.” He grins, pressing his heels into Logan’s bare ass. “Fuck me, please! Fuck me like you don’t want to stop.”

“You know I never do,” he pants, licking a trail of sweat from Scott’s shoulder. “ _Kid_.”

Before Scott can protest, he bottoms out, pressed all the way inside him, his balls snug to the cleft of Scott’s ass. He’s already fighting for air, his nails scraping white lines along Logan’s biceps. “F-fuck, fuck yeah.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started, babe.”

His belt clinks against the side of the table with the first long, winding thrust. But that’s not all; Scott’s air is punched out of him and his eyes nearly snap open. He screws them shut at the last second.

“That was close,” he pants.

Logan sucks his tongue, kissing along his chin and down his neck. He thrusts in, rougher and harder than the first time. “Let’s see if we can get even closer.”

They lose about a bucket of sweat between them; Logan pounding into Scott, covering his mouth to keep his sounds down, and getting bitten for his trouble. Scott clenches his eyes, his muscles doing the same around Logan’s cock – each time he’s almost about to open his eyes during a particularly perfect thrust. Logan is in love with all of it. He fingers Scott’s mouth, sloppy and red from bites. The two of them sticking from sweat and Scott’s come when he shot up their bellies just from Logan saying, “I know your eyes are blue behind it all.”

Maybe no one else had seen them.

They nearly crack the table, when Logan flips Scott onto his stomach and rams all the way in, pressing his cheek against the wood of the desk. This way he can shoot a laser through the floor instead of through Logan if he loses it.

When Logan squeezes Scott’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart to press a finger in alongside his dick, Scott loses it. The beam is small – barely a half-second of loss of control – but it happened, and he feels so goddamn smug about it. With a handful of pleas from Scott for him to _go faster, fuck me, I’m going to come again,_ he comes and pulls out so some of it can spill right over the rim. Scott’s tight little ass tastes so good with his slick all over it; he leans over and sucks his rim clean, pushing a finger in to get the rest that he missed.

“Oh fuck,” screams Scott, barely muffled by the table. He lifts his hips and the splash of his come hits the table, messy and clear. Impossible to miss.

“You better clean that up if you don’t want to get in trouble.” He slaps Scott hard across one ass cheek and gets off the table to let him do it.

Scott is full of surprises – the fun kind. He breathes heavy, whimpering on each exhale, slowly crawling up on his knees. He bends down and sucks the remnants away with his mouth. He turns to Logan, his lips shiny with his own come. “Is that clean enough?”

“You little punk,” growls Logan, gnawing on his bottom lip until he feels himself stir again. “Where the hell did I find you?”

Scott laughs, whispering in Logan’s ear, “Maybe we were made for each other.”

\---

Long story short: they got caught. Charles is more lenient on Logan for some reason; he lets him get off with just doing maintenance for whatever aircraft and vehicles Hank will build in the future. On the other hand, Scott has to become a teacher at the mansion.

“What do you mean you’re a teacher?” asks Logan, dragging him into his lap on the bed. They kiss softly, and it always feels like the first time when it’s slow and lazy like that.

Scott groans, banging a fist on Logan’s chest. “I have to teach other mutants about discipline apparently. The irony.”

“Actually, I think you’ll do pretty good.” He pulls at Scott’s bottom lip, loving the way it’s already swelling up with a couple of kisses. “You’re a decent guy.”

“Gee, thanks.” He sighs, folding his glasses and putting them on the night stand. “This is the worst punishment ever.”

“Or the best,” whispers Logan, cupping Scott’s jaw. “Did I ever mention I have a thing for teachers?”


	4. Beacon Hills' Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott and Stiles want to make sure Jackson is adjusting to his new life well. They pick up a few incidents while they're in England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plotholes more than likely, even though I tried to avoid them.  
> Timelines, man, they're so squiggly and uncontrollable.  
> Sorry for my terrible English geography (pretend it's okay).
> 
> This is set somewhere around season 2-3. Spoilers ahead with a twist.

It’s hard for Jackson to admit, but he doesn’t fit in. London isn’t growing on him; no one is half as witty as their stars; everyone is drunk and violent, secretly judging and sarcastic as all hell. It’s like a country full of intoxicated Lydias. Jackson had enough with just one of her.

He misses Beacon Hills; he misses the people he’s known since he was in elementary. He misses familiar faces and languages and places. Knowing that people are fake and just as insecure as he is. He sticks out like a sore thumb here, between his new powers, his accent and his behaviour.

What he really misses is the feeling of being in a team, a pack he almost had. When he’d asked Derek to turn him, he thought he’d come around and take him under his wing, not drop him in the middle of the woods to die. He didn’t think everyone would turn on him when it didn’t go as planned. The only ones there for him didn’t even particularly like him. But they were there. Scott cared, and by association so did Stiles – which was more than he could say about his ‘true’ pack.

Now that he’s a full-fledged wolf - without the deadly Kanima powers - and a blue-eyed born-wolf to boot, he’s all alone. Derek told him the basics then waved at him as he boarded the plane to England.

The weather is awful, the food is awful, and he’s lonelier than he’s been in his entire life. So, Jackson decides to wander the streets on a Friday night with no planned destination in mind. He’s a wolf; he can fight off whoever tries to bother him.

 

*

 

There’s a Cheeto stuck to Stiles’s elbow when he raises his hand to lick cheese powder from his thumb. Scott grabs it, and plops it into his mouth without thinking.

“Dude, this wolf behaviour is getting outta hand,” says Stiles, sucking on his index finger afterwards.

“Says the one who has more chips _on_ his body than inside of it,” he teases, flicking Stiles’ shirt. Cheetos fly all over Stiles’ carpet. His bedroom is a mess anyway; they’ve been looking up information on banshees for the past week without much luck. Lydia thinks she’s developing a new power, or that she suffered a mild stroke from the explosion she caused from a scream two full moons ago. (It’s a long story.)

Stiles just shrugs, pillows his head on his arm, stretching out his legs. “I need to recharge somehow. I haven’t been sleeping well. Last night I dreamt Lydia broke my door down with an ax and threatened to chop off my dick if I didn’t find something soon.”

Scott gapes at him.

“The worst part is I think that could eventually happen.” Stiles shivers exaggeratedly.

With a shake of his head, Scott laughs. “I don’t think she’d ever go that far. Maybe just scream in your ears a bit.” He scratches his belly, unselfconscious or concerned by Stiles’ roaming eyes.

“Geez, man, do you have to show off your pack like that?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Dude, I know you. Stop it.” Stiles slaps a hand down hard in the centre of Scott’s chest, which sets off a bout of wrestling and rolling over chips and cookie crumbs as well as some old books that probably cost more than Stiles’ car.

When they stop wrestling – with Stiles panting and Scott breathing normally – they’re both looking up at the ceiling.

Scott says, “I’m worried about Jackson.”

“Why? He’s not a Kanima anymore. You saw that. And Derek totally trained him before he got shipped out.”

“That’s why I’m worried,” says Scott, turning to face Stiles. “Remember what happened with Boyd and Erica?”

Stiles groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“We need to go see him. I need to make sure he’s okay and not killing people.” Scott sits up, prodding Stiles when he refuses to uncover his face.

His face is red from their wrestling. “I hate you so much right now. How can we even _get_ to England? I’m not selling my Jeep, dude. He’s not worth my baby.”

“I saved some money,” says Scott with a hopeful smile. “So? Up for it?”

Stiles rolls onto his stomach, flopping around like a fish. “ _Why me_?” he whines.

“Because you’re a good person, and it’s summer. We don’t have anything better to do.” Scott pats Stiles’ back. “I’ll deal with the flight.”

The reply is a muffled, “I wish I could murder you.”

 

*

“Dude, are you sure this is Jackson’s address? There’s no one here.” They glance around at the tinted windows, the obviously expensive garage – which they peek in and find filled with foreign cars – and the yard which has a built-in swimming pool big enough to charge money for. There’s a Porsche left outside near the front entrance – Jackson’s, of course. Or maybe some _other_ spoiled teenager whose family can afford a car that fast.

“That’s Jackson’s,” says Scott, after a good whiff of aftershave and apples hit him from a passing breeze. “He’s not here _now_ , but he lives here. Definitely.”

“Okay then, Sherlock. ‘Cause that wasn’t obvious by the ginormous house, swimming pool and abundance of cars just lounging around already.” Stiles sighs, pushing his hands into his pockets. “So do we just wait for him here or…?”

\---

The hotel Scott chose looked better on their website; the bed sheets are damp when Stiles bounces across their king size bed (Scott could only afford one room, on top of the plane tickets), the wallpaper is un-sticking in jagged lines, and the carpet near the bathroom has a dubious-smelling stain. They decide to avoid it as a rule. Even Scott’s wolf senses can’t help him identify what it was from.

“We’re staying here?” asks Stiles, claiming the left side as his own. He opens his laptop to check the local news online. “I mean until Jackson and his family come back.”

“We can’t really find him otherwise,” says Scott, yawning. “Think we have time to nap?”

“Even if we don’t, I vote it’s more important than rushing back to Jackson’s place. Doesn’t seem to be anything about people with their throats ripped out or even animal attacks.” He shuts his laptop with a mirroring yawn. “Keep your claws tucked away and we’ll be fine.”

“Ha-ha,” mumbles Scott, burrowing his face in the pillow on the right. “Smells like ass.”

Stiles snorts. “And yet-”

“Yeah, don’t care either.”

“Have a good nap,” yawns Stiles, tugging the blanket up over them.

\---

It’s probably all Scott’s fault that the blanket is on the end of the bed, hanging off, while Stiles clings to him, his mouth damp and sticky as he puffs out warm air against the back of his neck – but really, he can’t help that he runs so warm. Shoving off the blankets was the calmest thing he could have done. There are a few outcomes he can imagine that would have been much, much worse. And _that’s_ when stiles’ hips start moving in tight, little circles against his butt.

“Stiles,” he whispers, slinking away, his feet touching the ground and his torso still on.

“Mngh’not _hot_.” He chews on Scott’s pillowcase for a few seconds. “Tastes like ass.”

“Guess it tastes like it smells,” says Scott, trying not to laugh.

“Ugh,” groans Stiles, detaching himself and rolling over onto his back. He looks down and groans again. “Shit, sorry. Manliness going on below the waist.”

“I kind of noticed.” Scott slithers from the bed into a standing position. He stretches from one side to the next, carefully averting his eyes as Stiles sticks his hand down his shorts and arranges his junk. Not a care in the world. “I’m gonna—” He gestures towards the bathroom.

“Yeah, okay. Don’t take all the hot water.”

Scott nods and flees.

\---

The hot water only lasts ten minutes apparently, which is the amount of time it took for Scott to wash away the combined feeling of being invaded by strangers and his best friend’s hormones. It’s not like he could have guessed that when he stepped out with a towel around his waist. Stiles certainly doesn’t believe him though, and makes sure to sing – loudly and off-key – while he washes himself with cold water for longer than Scott thought he would.

He steps out a new man, but his hair a dishevelled mess with soap making it stick about in random points. Scratching his scalp, he sends a fiery look towards Scott. “I need a new best friend.”

“I swear I didn’t know!” Scott protests while tying the laces of his left shoe. He glances up, widening his eyes the way he knows always pushes people over the edge of disbelief into acceptance.

Stiles kicks his right shoe across the room; it doesn’t work on him as well as people who didn’t know him his whole life, Scott realizes. “Yeah, well, you should have considering how sketchy this room has been.”

“To be honest, I didn’t even think the water would turn on,” says Scott, crawling across the carpet – avoiding the stain – and reaching for his shoe. “Small miracles?”

“You should have never gotten smart. I hate this _new_ you.”

*

The house is just as intimidating the second time Scott and Stiles visit it. At least, this time, Jackson’s family is home. A woman who smells almost exactly like him comes to the door with painted nails and an elaborate bun. There’s an awkward stretch of silence as Scott considers what he’s meant to ask her. Stiles jumps in with, “We’re friends of Jackson’s – all the way from Beacon Hills.”

Feeling his brain turn on finally, Scott nods. “Yeah. Is he home?”

The woman taps at her chin with a delicate, red fingernail. “Now that you mention it, he hasn’t been home since last night.”

“Last night?” Scott and Stiles ask in unison.

Scrambling to remember his extracurricular calendar – a calendar that all werewolves have to keep track of – Scott realizes, with relief, that it was definitely not a full moon.

“Did he call or say anything?” asks stiles. “He told us to come find him when we were on summer break.”

The lie is so smooth it almost tricks Scott’s wolf senses, except he knows the truth because this was his idea.

She shakes her head, brows furrowing. “He hasn’t seemed very happy here,” she admits. “maybe if he knows there are friends looking for him he’ll show up?”

They leave the Whittemore household with a slight feeling of dread, at a loss for words as they make their way back to their dingy motel room.

\---

Stiles is drying his hair with a cotton towel. “Do you have his new number?”

The slip of paper is tucked safely in Scott’s back pocket; he pulls it out. “Derek gave it to me before we left.”

“Nice. At least he’s good for something. But wait—” Stiles stalks towards Scott, an irritated pull to his brows. “You didn’t think of calling sooner? Shame on you, Scotty.”

Scott shakes his head, tossing the balled up paper to Stiles. “I did call. Five times in the last two days. He hasn’t answered once. It just keeps ringing nonstop.”

“How did I miss your spy work?” grumbles stiles, scanning the number with his eyes. He raises a brow at Scott when they make eye contact. “We’ve been together since we got here.”

Scott beams. “Between meals, bathroom breaks, when you took a nap—”

“Okay, fine, I get it. I’m not on my A-game. I blame the jet-lag.” He tilts his head, knocking some water out of his ear. “But I can help now.” He strides across the room and picks up his cellphone. “I’ll ask a favour from my cousin.”

“Your cousin? The one with the dreadlocks who puts porridge on everything?”

“No!” Stiles waves a hand, doing a double take that Scott even remembers Chuck. “I haven’t seen Charlie in a while.” He stares off, a distant look in his eyes. Shaking it free, he says, “I meant my cousin Natasha.”

“The secret cousin who’s always abroad?”

“Uh-huh.” He ducks into the bathroom, hanging his towel on the rack.

Scott watches him reappear, and when he doesn’t offer up any explanation he asks, “Why have I never met her?”

“You don’t want to know,” sighs Stiles.

“Will I meet her now?” Scott tilts his head, watching as Stiles dials a number.

Stiles nods, pressing the phone to his ear as it rings. “Yep. And you might wish you hadn’t.”

*

Jackson scouts out a mansion five blocks from the home his mother picked out, and fifteen minutes from one of the nicest bars in Brixton. It’s only a short trip from there to get to London, but there are too many people; Jackson acts cocky, but he doesn’t want to endanger them if he doesn’t need to. It’s better to stay away from London.

That’s part of why the mansion appeals to him – no one in it seems to be very…normal. Aside from that, which is already a plus, the man in the wheelchair seems to let all of their odd (and often violent) behaviour just roll off his back; he has a calmness about him that makes Jackson want to be able to slip in and be accepted as well. Something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

One day, as he’s walking through the grass – having scouted long enough to know when the blue guy and the laser guy are eating lunch somewhere else – he notices some new people being brought into the mansion. It’s not like him to sneak closer for a better look, but he can’t sate his curiosity from just using his super-hearing; he wants to get a good view of these strangers. When they finally get inside far enough, he stands just at the foot of a large window, staring up, hoping he can see how the wheelchair man treats these new guests.

All he gets is a giant man – with shaggy, brown hair that needs a cut - catching him off guard, and he scurries through the garden and all the way back to Brixton. He doesn’t need to use his car much anymore; he doesn’t really get tired of running.

\---

It’s easy for him to sneak in and out of the mansion’s garden, watching as the three guests form a schedule of their own within the group of…weirdos. None of them are really like him, he knows; they smell different, not like wolves, not like anything he’s ever come across in Beacon Hills. Somehow, it doesn’t scare him so much as intrigue him – he’s always been a bit of a sticking-his-nose-in-places-he-shouldn’t kind of guy. It didn’t go so badly; sure he was a lizard-puppet for a while, but now he’s his own person— _wolf_.

Once he figures out everyone’s patterns, he slithers about wholly unnoticed. He even gets a good look inside – one floor at a time, when there’s no one paying attention – because of how insane one of the new guys is. They’re so busy watching his door and his window, bringing him meals and trying to not make him feel like a prisoner that Jackson barely has to hide his presence.

Eventually, when Jackson is going out of his mind with hearing the same drinking songs at his favourite bar, the three guests finally seem like they may vacate the mansion. At this point, he doesn’t even care if they let stragglers come stay at the mansion because he doesn’t want to live in his boring house, with its emptiness and his dad forever gone on business trips, hardly ever calling or messaging. His only sanctuary has been tainted now that it’s soccer – sorry, _football_ – season, and everyone is drunk, smelly and altogether too aggressive for his tastes; he doesn’t want to slip up and slice someone’s throat and have them die on him, or worse, turn into a wolf.

At night, he sleeps in one of the guest rooms far down the hall, quietly enough that no one notices his presence. He only brings an overnight bag each time. He goes back home while his mom is asleep, changes his clothes, takes some money, and spends the day in Brixton; sometimes closer to London if there’s a sale. Then when it’s dark again, he takes the room he occupied the night before at the mansion, and sleeps soundly--always with just an overnight bag, and never leaving a trace behind, even going as far as flipping the mattress when he knows the younger guys aren’t around to hear him do it.

Then, at long last, one of the three guests says, “I think it’s time to leave.” It’s the best thing Jackson has heard in months; he doesn’t have to creep around back and forth anymore. He’s just going to take their spot and enjoy the luxury that they’ve been ignoring. It’s going to be perfect.

That night, the smell of chemicals fills his nostrils; someone’s been snooping around his room.

*

Stiles is half-asleep when there’s a knock on their motel room door. Scott is nice enough to go answer it, waving him to sit back down. “I got it.”

A redhead in a black jacket and jeans steps inside like she owns the place. She raises a brow at Scott, looking him up and down. “Cute. I always knew we had the same taste in men.”

“Ha-ha,” yawns Stiles. “Natasha, that’s my best friend Scott. Scott, this is my cousin Natasha.” He covers his mouth when the next yawn hits, his jaw cracking with it. “God, this spy business is tiring. How do you do it, Tash?”

“With delicacy,” she deadpans. “So, I found out what area he’s in. I actually came across him a few times in Brixton – he’s pretty handsome.” She hands Stiles a picture of Jackson she took while he was drinking at a bar. “This is him, right?”

Stiles nods, flipping the photo to show it to Scott. “Look, dude, told you she was good.” He gives her a thumbs up, grinning. “So where is he staying?”

“Somewhere not far from this bar, but I got kind of sidetracked when the, you know, godly brothers started getting into it again. Even Steve is starting to look tired out.” She sighs, plopping down on Stiles’s side of the bed. “I don’t know if I’ll have time to find the address, but I’m sure if you walk around this bar you’ll eventually bump into him. It’s the best I can offer for now.”

“No, don’t worry, I totally get it. Those two must be a major pain.”

Scott squints, watching them both chatter on about ‘brothers’ never saying their names, but throwing around a lot of strange adjectives that he doesn’t get. It takes him a couple minutes, but when Natasha stands to leave, Scott finally clicks. “Oh my god! You mean Thor and Loki are in England right now?” he beams.

“Are you sure he’s an alpha?” she asks Stiles.

Stiles nods. “Positive. We’re just too good at speaking in code.”

“Wait! So you’re Black Widow!” shrieks Scott, shuffling towards her, a huge dumb smile on his face. He knows it’s dumb because Stiles is shaking his head, and it’s hurting his jaw to keep it in place.

“I’m Natasha,” she says, patting his shoulder. “I don’t do autographs but if you ever get in trouble, you can call me.” She smiles lopsidedly. “Your crooked jaw somehow makes you cuter.” She pokes it.

Stiles hums his assent. “The world is so unfair.”

“Anyway, I’ll be going now.” She waves to Stiles. “Try to watch the news and stay out of the demolished areas. Lucky for you, they haven’t trampled Brixton yet.”

“Thank you!” Scott says a bit too loudly as she shuts the door behind her.

It starts as a giggle, then it’s a fit, a rowdy, obnoxious fit of laughter that has Stiles clutching his stomach and rolling on the floor. He even kicks out his legs, and manages to knock the lamp off his bedside table – which Scott is nice enough to catch before it hurts him – rolling on the ground until his face is red.

“What’s so funny?” asks Scott as he puts the lamp back.

“Oh, god,” wheezes Stiles, leaning on one knee to get up. “Man, I didn’t know you were an Avengers fanboy.”

“I’m not a fan…boy,” he says. “I just appreciate what they did in New York.” He crosses his arms over his chest when Stiles starts giggling again. It’s one thing to be laughed at, but it’s another to carry on about it for ten straight minutes. “Are you done yet? If you kick the lamp this time, I’m letting it hit you.”

“Wow, harsh,” says Stiles, but he’s grinning. “Okay, I’m sorry.” He sits on the bed, picking the photo back up. “She wrote the address on the back. Do you feel like sneaking into another bar?”

“What else is there to do?” Scott grabs his jacket, not looking back as he leaves the room.

He’s down the hall, in front of the elevator, when he hears Stiles say under his breath, “I can’t believe he’s an Avengers fanboy.”

Scott doesn’t hold the doors for Stiles when he runs to catch the elevator.

\---

It’s easy enough to find the bar that Jackson has been frequenting, but his smell is fading fast; he just left and none of the workers even know he exists. Jackson is a ghost because he wants to be. It’s scary how well he can blend in, when back in Beacon Hills all he ever wanted was to stand out; times have changed so much.

Stiles doesn’t want to leave before they get a couple drinks, just to say they didn’t come here for nothing. There’s a moment where he makes this tight face, kind of strained and Scott nearly asks, ‘are you okay?’ but then it passes. The bartender hands them each a pint of beer.

“What was that about?” asks Scott, watching Stiles guzzle down half of his glass.

He wipes the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. “I was trying to look older. Didn’t want to have to take out my fake I.D.”

Scott blinks a couple times. “We’re eighteen, Stiles.”

He chokes out, “Shh, don’t tell everyone! We’ll get kicked out.”

“Stiles! Eighteen is the legal drinking age here.” He bumps his shoulder against Stiles’s, laughing into his mug. “I thought you were the clever one.”

“Clever, not always smart,” he corrects, drinking slower now. “Guess I don’t need to rush then.”

“No you don’t,” laughs Scott. “I’m sure Jackson will show up—”

The smell of madness, a raging anger like Scott has never sensed spikes in the air. It fills up his veins and almost pushes him to transform all the way into an alpha with how intense it is. He only snaps out of it because Stiles has an arm gripping his shoulder tight, trying to hide where his nails have dug into the wood of the bar.

“Hey, Scott,” he whispers, his eyes wide with panic, “What’s going on?”

“There’s something in here, and it’s not happy. It smells male.” He sniffs again to confirm; definitely male. It also smells frantic and hungry, a rough mixture of feelings churning and making Scott’s insides feel molten with the invasion.

“What’s the plan?” says Stiles, looking around the bar. “Go after him?”

“I think he knows we spotted him. He seems dangerous,” growls Scott, downing his pint in one gulp. “Finish up; we need to go talk him down.”

“Who are we talking about? I don’t have your wolf senses in case you forgot,” grumbles Stiles, glancing left and right.

“The weird dude in the corner, not drinking anything – staring us down now.” Scott nearly points, but he knows that might just make everything escalate quickly.

“You mean the one who’s covering his mouth?” croaks stiles, subtly pushing Scott in front of him in case a fight breaks out. “The one whose eyes—”

 

“Just turned red,” finishes Scott, snarling as he shoves Stiles further back. “Get somewhere safe!”

If it’s a battle this man wants, it’s one he’ll get. But not before he gets him out of this crowd of people too smashed out of their gourds to notice two monsters about to brawl. He can’t help snarling as he pushes through body after body, trying to ease them towards Stiles so they can be both led to safety but also provide a cover for him. If anything happens to Stiles while they’re here, so far from Deaton and the rest of the pack, he doesn’t know what he’d do.

Scott knows his eyes are red now, too; some people around him move away, and the man also startles and stands up from his stool in the corner. His back hunches as he stalks closer, finally close enough to see that the man has a good ten years on him. Once the man snarls back, Scott takes it as a challenge and can’t help his cutting tone as he says, “Outside.”

Instead of agreeing, the man grabs the closest beer mug and smashes it against the wood of the bar. Everyone around him shouts, including Stiles who kind of squawks from fear. That’s all Scott can hear; his friend being frightened again when they’ve already been through a number of traumas. This is meant to be a vacation, not another battle to the death. This isn’t going to happen under his watch, but everyone else seems to want it to. The drunken patrons follow the man’s lead, throwing mugs and beer around, plastic cups and screaming at the top of their lungs. The man has someone twice his size in a headlock when Scott grabs for him, none-too-gently, spitting, “I said _outside_. _Now_.” It could have been stiles in his place.

Surprisingly, the man lets go and follows Scott outside. He turns to Stiles, inclining his head to say where he’s going. Of course, stiles being stiles, almost falls on his mad race to join him outside of the fight still roaring in the pub.

“What are you?” Scott asks, moving to block Stiles in case he attacks.

The man laughs, unfriendly. Stiles shrugs his shoulders when Scott turns to him for an explanation to the odd reaction.

“A vampire hybrid—thing,” grunts the man. He crosses his arms, squinting at them like they’re just insects he hasn’t squashed on his dashboard yet. Even though they have him blocked in a lane-way with no pipes to climb and no hidden exits, he doesn’t seem worried in the least.

“Vampire?” squawks Stiles. “There are vampires now? I thought Beacon Hills had a full set of supernatural thingamabobs, but I guess we were missing the ultra-rare vampire-hybrid card.” He throws his hands in the air. “What’s next, _angels_?”

When the man starts laughing, Scott knows he doesn’t need to ask; there are angels. And obviously he knows one, or more, of them. That could come in handy, he supposes. Not that he’s ever needed an ‘angel’ when he’s got such a loyal pack.

 

\---

 

The whole conversation is a mess of information Scott, once again, didn’t know about. Hunters can save the world, apparently – not just massacre entire, innocent families of werewolves. That’s a thing that happened, outside of Beacon Hills. Stiles knew about this, but never offered the information. Not only that, but this man is a hero, and he was about to turn the bar into his own private fountain of blood.

Even that isn’t what’s most shocking, though.

This man, this _Dean Winchester_ , he knows where Jackson has been hiding. He writes the address down for them, but also offers up his cellphone number in case of ‘emergencies.’ Scott thought he would be the cause for one, not the solution.

 

\---

 

It’s not long until they arrive at a Gothic-inspired mansion that smells more like home than Scott cares to admit; Stiles would just call him sappy or something else uncalled for. Dean leaves them with a big, hairy blue guy named Hank. He turns out to be their age, with two PhDs under his belt.

“I’m Hank McCoy,” he says, ducking his head timidly. His teeth are sharp like razors as he smiles, Scott notices. “I don’t think your friend has been staying here. But if anyone has, it would have to be in the furthest guest room. No one ever goes down that hall because there’s no need to.”

As he leads them to the room, Stiles nudges Scott, mimicking Hank’s teeth, and pointing to his eyes. “Man, now I’ve seen everything,” he concludes.

Scott wants to laugh; gives Stiles a smile because it’s true, but he can tell Hank is already uncomfortable with his appearance. There’s no need to make him feel worse about it.

Dean watches them walk down the hall, and goes his own way, into a different room. Scott wants to thank him; it can wait until later, though. First, they have to make sure Jackson is safe and not off on a rampage of his own.

Hank turns the door, and moves so Scott and Stiles can go in. they look around; no clothes in the drawers, no posters, clean sheets. Scott murmurs, “He’s not here.”

“I told you there wasn’t anyone staying here—”

“But he was,” says Scott. He touches the bed, feeling the heat of a wolf that never quite goes away. It doesn’t help that Jackson is a fan of cologne either; his smell is still in the air, even if Scott didn’t identify him with the smell of ‘pack.’

“So he’s staying here?” asks Stiles, glancing around, doing a slow walk around the room. He ends up at the window. “I guess it would be easy for him to climb in and out through here. Not too high up, enough grips to scale.”

“Exactly,” agrees Scott.

“Wait,” interrupts Hank. He fixes his glasses. “Jackson has been staying at the mansion and no one noticed? How is that possible?” Baring his teeth for a smell, he sucks in the air. He closes his eyes, approaching the bed and leaning close to sniff the sheets tucked in neatly. “Wow, you’re right.”

“You missed that?” teases Stiles, raising a brow. “Aren’t you some kind of bear or something?”

“I’m a mutant,” grumbles Hank, cutting his eyes at them. “I’ve been busy with a different guest, okay?”

“You mean Dean?” asks Scott, stepping in front of Stiles. He’d say it’s automatic, but it isn’t; Stiles often gets annoyed if he tries to protect him too much. Good thing he’s too busy laughing under his breath right now to notice.

Hank nods. “Him and his brother have been staying here…” He scrubs at his neck. “I guess I’ve been too preoccupied with his mood swings.”

“It’s understandable,” says Stiles. “we saw him try to eat a bar full of people not long ago.”

“Stiles!” Scott covers his mouth with his palm, muttering to him, “he told us not to mention that, remember?”

Hank looks worried as they both force a laugh out, nudging each other. Stiles says, “I meant Dean _looked_ like he wanted to eat them because of how hungry he was. The service was so slow at that bar.”

Nodding fervently, Scott chimes in with, “Yeah! _Really_ slow. We had to wait half an hour for two beers.”

“Oh,” says Hank, rubbing his hands down his slacks. He points to the door. “Well, I need to get back to my research, so I’ll leave you two here. If you want to look around the mansion you’ll need to see Charles. He’s the one in the wheelchair.”

*

It’s early morning when Jackson packs a duffel bag, one from lacrosse, and makes his way quietly to the mansion. The birds are chirping, the sky is blue – which is a rare sight – and the smell of fresh cut grass is filling his senses. It would have been so easy to just walk up the driveway, through the garden and the miles of green like he has a number of times; instead, he knocks on the front entrance like the good little boy his adoptive mother tried to raise.

The blue guy answers, his hair a mess of strands and a pair of grandpa glasses on the edge of his nose. “Can I help you?” he asks.

It rubs Jackson the wrong way for some reason. Possibly because he’s been all over the mansion, rubbing his scent in every corner, and still this doofus can’t recognize that this isn’t his first time here. Admittedly, this is the first time they’ve met though, so Jackson lets him off with a long-suffering sigh. “Listen, four eyes, I’m just going to stay here for a while. Wheels knows I’m coming.”

“Wheels? You mean Charles?” His brows furrow, framing his golden eyes. “He didn’t mention any of that to me.”

“Maybe because your poor taste in clothes is a reflection of how little attention you pay when he speaks to you,” says Jackson, shoving past him. “Go ask him yourself.” He smiles unkindly, striding upstairs to the room he’s been using for a couple weeks now.

The best way to be trusted with a lie is to do it confidently – no fear, no hesitation.

\---

It’s, maybe, five minutes later. Charles isn’t in a wheelchair anymore, which throws Jackson off; but he doesn’t mention that when he knocks on the door, pushing it open gently. No doubt that he’ll be told to leave since he didn’t ask first before taking this spot – not like all the rooms are being used anyway. If he’s going to be kicked out, he might as well do it with a bang. He stretches out on - what he considers - his bed, folding his hands behind his head. Fake it ‘til you make it, that’s what his dad always says. Funny that he’s had to do a lot of ‘faking’ in his dad’s presence, though.

“Excuse me,” says Charles, stepping into the room. “May I ask why you’re here?”

Jackson likes the way he speaks; it kind of reminds him of the soft assertiveness he found in Danny. Someone who doesn’t need to raise their voice to command a room. That’s the only reason he tells the truth. “I needed more room,” he says, “and I came across this mansion. Your doorman didn’t seem to mind.” It feels less awkward if he closes his eyes; the whole standing and not in a wheelchair thing is throwing him through a loop. “You guys don’t seem to have much security. I would fix that with a place this big.” What he doesn’t say is the part where hunters are everywhere, always ready to kill with no better excuse than that anything not human _could_ be dangerous – in the future.

_What makes you think we don’t have any security?_ echoes inside of Jackson’s mind, spurring him into sitting up, making his claws almost slide out and tear the mattress. He’s never anything that pervasive before, so profoundly close that it might as well have been inside of his ears.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, his heart pounding like all the times Derek’s threatened him into controlling his werewolf urges.

“My ability. I sense you have a few of your own. Werewolf?” he asks.

Jackson doesn’t think he can make his throat work without swallowing a couple times; he takes a deep breath in. this isn’t Derek with his intimidation tactics or dismissal of his existence; Charles cares about the people who stay in the mansion. Or so he seems. “How’d you know—let me guess, your ability.” For appearance sake, he sucks his teeth, knowing deep down if Charles speaks inside his head again he might turn and not be able to help it. “Figures I’d pick the only mansion with weirdo creatures just like in Beacon Hills.” No need to admit he’s been spying on them all for weeks, is there?

“Ah, I’ve heard of the events in that town. You’ve travelled a long way.” Charles straightens his vest. “You’re free to join me and Hank for breakfast. I was just about to make omelettes.”

That easy? No ground rules? No punishment for breaking and entering? Jackson tilts his head, confused by this turn. It can’t be so simple to be accepted when everyone here is hunted for one reason or another. “You’re not gonna kick me out?”

“Why should I?” asks Charles, narrowing his eyes. “Have you murdered anyone? Stolen? Kidnapped a helpless infant?” He’s smiling as he says it.

Jackson scoffs, holding back a laugh. He could be after their powers; he could be hired by governments for all they know. “No, but –”

“I can see into your mind, Jackson Whittemore. I know you are not an enemy.” Charles grins at him while he sputters in disbelief. “Stay as long as you need.”

 

\---

 

The thing is: Jackson came to the mansion for a semblance of peace; a vacation away from the droll, uncomfortable state of his adoptive family. When his father is home, all he does is talk about work, and all his mother does - whether her husband is home or not – is drink herself into a half-stupor. Probably in reaction to always being without him. Jackson understands that part, but he doesn’t understand why she needs to do that when it’s summer break and he was home, eager to go out and see the sights with her. She turned down all his offers, which is what led him to Brixton and his favourite hole-in-the-wall pub.

And now here, to the mansion that’s meant to offer up a family of misfits. Instead, he’s gotten a headache two days in a row. It’s another morning, another chance for Jackson to jog - and possibly find a partner to do it with him – when he spots a tall, dark haired teenager already jogging without him. He rushes out through his window and catches up to him, smiling until he smells who it is: Hank.

Hank can become human, or is in a human form - one of those two. It’s not like it matters; Hank is in a different form, and looks somehow better in his nerdy clothes without the blue fur and yellow eyes. Jackson doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s kind of got the whole Clark Kent look going for him. Why in the devils would he say that, though? Insults come to him so much easier after all, having honed his skills at Beacon Hills.

“I think you smelled better covered in fur,” he jokes, plugging his nose.

It’s a shame Hank doesn’t have much in the way of a sense of humour; his shirt nearly tears in half when he changes, suddenly and unnecessarily, into his prior form – Beastly or whatever the other weirdos call him.

What started as – what Jackson insists was – playful banter, quickly escalated into a full throttle, no-survivors brawl. Possibly it went that far because, as much as they seem nonchalant, neither of them like losing. Jackson is will be the first to admit it leaves his skin feeling raw and his insides tangled like vines if he can’t say with confidence that he’s won. Hank is of the same opinion, apparently.

Two hours later, Jackson sliced all over and bitten and bleeding, not able to heal fast enough for the amount of slashes coming his way, their fight still isn’t over. He’s losing stamina, and quickly, but Hank seems just as fierce as when he started; maybe he has more experience in the fighting department. It ends just as suddenly as it began, with the metal-bender guy wrapping them both in human-sized tin foil and forcing them apart.

Charles isn’t pleased about any of it, and Jackson is man enough to admit he took it too far; he should have just apologized when Hank took his teasing to heart instead of letting it turn to fists and claws. He stays away from the big, blue ball of fury for a while so he can cool back down.

\---

On the other hand, Raven is the most spectacular thing Jackson has ever come across; he assumes it may have something to do with his Kanima form that he shed when he was reborn as a wolf, but truly it’s just her. She’s feminine and strong, not afraid to walk around in her blue form all the time, completely naked save for the pattern of her flesh. She always seems to smell of daisies which Jackson attributes to the frolicking in the grass she does with Sean and Alex. They act like kids with each other, but Jackson doesn’t feel comfortable enough yet to join them.

Aside from her, who Jackson seeks out daily, follows around helplessly and often gets fed by (because she is the most generous woman you could ever want to meet), there’s the metal-bender. Erik is a jerk, that’s where it ends. Jackson doesn’t like him, but it seems like most of Charles’s companions don’t either so he doesn’t feel very bad about it. He can still sleep at night.

Charles is okay; he’s more than okay. He’s selfless and funny, witty. He’s definitely as easy to be around as Danny, and his accent is actually really nice to listen to. It lolls you to sleep when you need it, which Raven does a lot; letting him read her an old textbook while he strokes her red hair away from her face. Jackson isn’t peeking, per se, they just happen to be doing it in the living room most the time.

Alex is a jerk, mostly because he has a giant boner for Hank and assumes Jackson wants in on that. Newsflash: he doesn’t. Jackson could get anyone he wanted; why would he go for the nerdy Clark Kent with the IQ of 180, a devastating smile and model-like form…That doesn’t really prove his case, does it? The truth is, he might have been interested once upon a time; however, ever since their brawl, Hank is wary and speaks only if told to do so by Charles. Basically, Alex can have him all to himself.

Sean is MIA; always flying off just as Jackson starts finding witty ways to make fun of his red hair. Unlike Hank, he knows what jokes are and how to take them; he throws back as good as he gets. And when that doesn’t deter Jackson, he uses his banshee - not an actual Banshee like Lydia – scream and makes the world spin and shake, and Jackson’s head throbs until he’s forced to call uncle. There aren’t many people able to do that, but most of them seem to be related to Banshees.

Just as he’s forming a routine, this smelly, hairy guy named Logan – who is a _humongous_ jerk – brings another stick in the mud mutant with him; he has magic eyes, Jackson thinks, because he refuses to ever open them. Maybe he has x-ray vision and he’s too stuffy to use it to his advantage. Not that he would need to around Raven – speaking of which, Logan also brought another mutant by the name of Marie with him. Either because it’s a girl thing or because Raven is fascinated by her the same way he is with Raven, she ends up spending all her time with Marie. They go on runs together, hang out in the training room, go out in town, watch movies in each other’s rooms – Jackson never invited to any of these activities. He feels bad about it until he realizes no one else is either.

That and the fact that a certain Avenger (known for her constant black clothes) shows up and grants him an out without him needing to seem like a whiny douche who only wants to be around when people pay attention to him.

*

It must be kismet that Natasha always drops by their motel room while Stiles is either falling asleep or about to pass out in the one chair by the bed (that Scott doesn’t want to tell him may be growing mould). He knocks both knees against the side of the bed as he hears her tapping at their door, waking with, “Whozat? I have a bat!”

Sadly, he doesn’t; not here across an ocean on the other side of the world. Scott still laughs and pushes him down so he doesn’t break something in his fright. “I’ll get it,” he tells him, ruffling his long hair. It’s going to need a cut soon.

Natasha stands there, eyeing Scott as if it’s the first time, then strides in like normal. “I was hoping to catch you with your shirt off this time,” she says, smiling.

Stiles yawns behind a fist, shaking his head. “that’s every day that you haven’t dropped by.”

“Drats.” She sits across from Stiles, on his side of the bed. “So your friend is at the Xavier mansion—”

“We know,” cuts in Scott, sighing. “he wasn’t there when we went by.”

“Well he is now. Moved his stuff in and everything. The guy who owns the place, Charles, says he’s causing a lot of trouble. He wants you two to go get him and bring him out. Distract him or whatever teenagers do when they travel abroad.”

“Have you never been one?” Stiles asks, mockingly.

She rolls her eyes. “Shall we go through my upbringing again? I’ll make sure not to spare the gore this time.”

“No, no. Never mind. I think I erased it from my memory or something.” He scratches his scalp. “Also, I was falling asleep. I blame that because that’s a thing.”

“Fair enough,” she says, smiling. She stands, fixing her jacket and saluting Scott as she struts by him and out the door. “I’ll be in touch, probably.”

Scott is always so in awe of Stiles and his famous cousin that he never finds anything to say until it’s too late. He shouts in the hall, “It was nice seeing you again! Maybe we can hang out next time!”

She laughs at the same time that Stiles does; it’s obvious they’re related, and not only because they both kind of short circuit Scott’s brain with their sarcasm and resourcefulness.

\---

Typically, Jackson’s greeting when he sees them is ‘dumb and dumber’ or some other variation that is just as insulting but nothing but a cover for how he really feels. It was clear, before he left for England, that he appreciated Scott’s help – even though it didn’t stop Derek from impaling him with Peter’s help.

That’s in the past now, though. Hopefully. Actually, Scott didn’t get a chance to see him before he packed up and left, so he’s not sure how he took that whole situation, or if Derek taught him well enough (which is part of why he needed to come see for himself).

There’s a full moon tomorrow, and that’ll give him some bonding time with Jackson in preparation. Just to be sure he doesn’t rip out any throats. Stiles says there’s enough crime in London that possibly they wouldn’t realize there were werewolves right away. That’s the bright side, Scott guesses?

They’re getting ready to go, having showered and prepped a whole speech in case Jackson turns on them and calls them foul names (and ends up trying to kill Stiles). Scott even spared some of their food cash to let Stiles get a replacement bat and he’s dying to get a workout with it. He and Jackson always seem to rub each other raw, mostly relating to Lydia. Now, though, no one has her; Stiles even seems at peace with never being with her.

It looks good on him, this new self-assuredness.

The moment they’re out the building, Stiles having managed to shove the bat in a backpack, Scott feels a tension release. Somehow, he knows this is going to be okay. Jackson could have murdered long before they arrived – months and months ago. If anything, it was Matt’s fault that he hurt anyone at all. Jackson, as himself, never hurt anyone to that point.

Everything’s going to be all right, definitely.

\---

This is, arguably, worse than Scott thought possible. Jackson – known for his snide remarks and flawless complexion – is happy to see them. Happy. To see them. Them! The two he made suffer for most of their pubescent years in Beacon Hills, who slammed Scott into lockers almost daily, who flaunted Lydia on his arm to make Stiles cringe and grind his teeth. That Jackson. The one who could be a model, an actor, a singer or a Greek god.

“Hey guys, I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, showing them inside.

Stiles looked shocked just from Jackson being the one to answer the front door; he usually has servants to do that kind of stuff. Silence hovers over them all as they climb the stairs to his guest room.

For one, Scott knows the water must work here because Jackson never looked better. Secondly, Stiles keeps sneaking glances in the other people’s rooms, which Scott needs to bug him about later (and ask for all the details).

When they get to Jackson’s room, filled with his stuff just like Natasha said, he grabs his wallet and slides it in his jeans, smirking their way. “Let’s go out and have some fun. I know a couple good places around Brixton. My treat, I know you two are still peasants.”

If it wasn’t for that last comment, Scott might have dug his claws into him; Jackson is never that nice or friendly with them. Never. In a million years. So, that was his saving grace. He spared his own life. Stiles’s eyes dart to Scott’s, no doubt thinking the same thing as he was just about to unzip his backpack.

“Okay, sure,” says Stiles, wrapping an arm around Scott’s shoulders. “We haven’t been out much anyway. Scott here has us on a tight leash. No pun intended.”

Jackson snorts, checking his hair in the mirror and making sure the point isn’t lopsided. “Ready to go?”

Scott nods dumbly, letting Stiles usher him out. Jackson trails behind them, until they remember that he’s the one bringing them somewhere. When he strides in front, his Jackson swagger is back and both Scott and Stiles breathe a sigh of relief.

“Thank god,” murmurs Stiles to Scott. “I thought he was a shapeshifter or something.”

“same. But then again, things have changed. Maybe he wants to be friends now?” whispers Scott back, his eyes never leaving the back of Jackson's head.

Stiles ducks back, squinting at Scott like he’s grown an extra nose. “Are we talking about the same Jackson?”

“I can hear you both. Did you forget about your own wolf hearing, Scott?” scoffs Jackson, glancing back at them. “Don’t make me take back the offer to treat you.”

\---

It’s the same bar they’d been to - often now that they didn’t have to lie about their ages – looking for Jackson each time, in hopes to find him. They’re sick of it at this point. Well, Scott is; he hasn’t seen much of England considering how much money he spent to get them here.

Stiles speaks up, reading his mind, “Can we go somewhere else? We’ve been here a few times.”

It’s the nicest tone he’s ever used when speaking with Jackson; he’s making an effort not to start any arguments – which is definitely an improvement on wanting him dead. It’s just…confusing.

They’re in some kind of parallel universe where they can drink freely and without a hassle, and Stiles and Jackson aren’t fighting over who will end up with Lydia. They’re actually, if you squint and turn your head sideways, getting along.

Jackson shrugs. “The other place is about a twenty minute walk from here. Are you up for it in those disasters you’re wearing?” he crosses his arms, looking at the scuffed sneakers Stiles has refused to part with.

“I’ll have you know these were Air Jordan's once upon a time,” he says dryly, quickly grinning afterwards.

Jackson answers it with a smile of his own, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, Stilinski.”

\---

The other bar felt more welcoming, Scott notes. It was more homely, a small hole in the ground that only locals go to. This new one has bartenders who don’t make eye contact and sigh if you take too long to tip them. On the bright side, Jackson opens a tab; that changes their entire demeanour and pre-emptive bad mood. They even get ushered to a semi-private table near the back, next to the stained glass windows. Since the bathrooms are closer to the front, no one comes by to disturb them – save for a waiter once in a while, offering to refill their drinks and hoping to get a big tip by the end of the night.

“Don’t waste a drop,” says Jackson, giving them each one.

The foam that sticks to Stiles’ lip on his first sip doesn’t affect Jackson. It’s as though even his drink knows better than to mess with his carefully constructed appearance (and his death glare). Speaking of which –

“Have you killed anyone?” asks Scott, sucking in a breath at his own bluntness. He’d meant to ask how the whole wolf training had gone. Stiles is no help, giggling next to him, his top lip covered in foam.

Jackson’s eye-roll is spectacular, going from coast to coast. Danny probably sensed it back in California. “No, you _idiot_. If you managed to tamp it down, of course I could.”

“But you didn’t have Stiles helping,” says Scott, clanging his pint against the side of Stiles’.

“Nor my trusty bat,” adds Stiles, “Thanks, buddy.”

“Yeah, instead I got Hale and his growing impatience. More effective.”

He guzzles down half his pint, probably to ignore the wide-eyed look of sympathy Scott has on his face. It’s not his fault that he can picture how rough his transition has been, then to be sent outside of his comfort zone on top – away from everything he’s ever know. Stiles saves Scott from saying something stupid like “I’m sorry it wasn’t me” by accidentally snorting some beer up his nose and giggling louder.

Even Jackson laughs a bit. “Anyway, let’s get smashed. Or, well, _try_ ,” he declares, flagging down their eager waiter. “I want to see just how good this wolf healing is.”

\---

Stiles is a winner, not a giver-upper (though his mental facilities are now starting to fail him at an alarming pace). Thing is, he’s pissed at both Scott and Jackson – Scott more so because he’s an _Alpha_ , and apparently that means his liver is invincible; whereas Jackson is an omega-ish wolf, untrained mostly, and had at least gained a slur to his speech.

The only way Stiles now this is because Jackson’s words are usual crisp, clear and sharp – just like his looks (and personality). By the second hour of this debauchery, Stiles daydreams about the plump swell of his bottom lip and how many times Lydia got to suck it in between her teeth. Then he pictures Scott doing it, and that sends his system into a frenzy of _ohmygod why_ , and then _why not_.

After a good eight pints and fending off a killer boner - maybe some shots thrown in while he hobbled off to the bathroom, holding his bladder between his legs like a baby – Stiles knows there’s nowhere to go but down. Being this drunk is like getting hit with a sledgehammer, which is probably where the term ‘hammered’ comes from. Stiles feels the hangover already, and he’s pretty sure the pain is supposed to let the buzz simmer first; let him go streaking, try to hit on women or just fall down on his face.

Scott look at him when he starts hiccuping, a fond look. Like he can’t believe that his best friend is with him for this. Even though they used to go in the woods a lot, to drink (and search for dead bodies), he’s never been this drunk before.

Their table wobbles, but doesn’t because no one’s drinks spill. Jackson is leaning forward, breathing beer breath in their direction, smiling at Scott but also at him; it turns into a grimace, his face dark with shadows, the red blush blood dripping from his lips. He’s never been this drunk before, he reminds himself; nothing to panic over. Maybe it’s the mixture of imbibing more than normal and the mess he needed to go through with this trip. Something is off, though; he feels it in his skin, climbing up his veins, pressing in on him, forcing him down, obedient.

He’s an internal person, most anxious people are. He can’t help analyzing, remembering every detail of every second he ever did something wrong. But this is different somehow; it’s so much worse. it’s like he’s suddenly stuck inside the darkness of his mind, the light-less corner with nightmares and hollow smiles. He’s there now, he’s there, and no matter how much he screams at Scott or in Jackson’s face, yanking at their hair, neither of them notice he’s stuck. He’s stuck; there’s no way back to the surface, to the fun.

\---

“Stiles has been staring at the same spot for over ten minutes,” Jackson says to Scott. “Is he okay? I mean he’s usually a bit of a freak, but this is odd even for him.”

“Stiles?” asks Scott, leaning in to touch his elbow. His hand is frozen in air, holding up the pitcher that’s half full ---it’s his ninth or tenth; they lost count after he started clucking to the rhythm of lady gaga songs. That part was fun. This part? Worrisome.

“If this is a joke, Stilinski, I don’t appreciate it,” snaps Jackson, leaning forward to snap his fingers in his face.

Scott waits for him to laugh or boast that he tricked them; he doesn’t. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t make a sound. Jackson manipulates his hand, putting the pint down. He doesn’t react. Scott runs a hand through his hair; he doesn’t respond. Jackson presses his lips close to Stiles’ ear, whispering something ( _I’m not wearing anything under my jeans)._ Scott side-eyes Jackson, peering under the table to see for himself, and Jackson shrugs. Still, Stiles doesn’t move a single muscle.

“I thought for sure he’d be grossed out by that,” says Jackson, sighing. “Does this happen a lot?”

Scott shakes his head, his mouth gaping. This isn’t usual, this isn’t healthy; this is new. New in the decade he’s known Stiles. New in a bad way. “What should we do?” he croaks, trying to clamp down the fear rising. Stiles has always been the idea guy.

“Maybe he just needs to get the beer out of his system? I may have pushed too far,” admits Jackson, his brows creased with worry, too. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I don’t think this is you,” says Scott. He touches Stiles’s temple; he’s way over 100 degrees. “I think something’s wrong. We need to get him to a hospital. He’s burning up.”

Jackson touches his forehead. “What are you talking about? He’s freezing cold,” he says, frowning.

Scott touches him again, and he’s right; it feels like touching a block of ice. “Either way, we need to get him out of here.”

“Yeah, okay, let me just--” Jackson starts to raise an arm so he can pay off the tab when Stiles’s hand shoots out, gripping his wrist so tight he snarls at the pain of it. His face moves in inches, an eerie twitch to his jaw. “Stilinski! Get off, it hurts.”

“Stiles!” Scott reaches for his hand, trying to pry it from Jackson’s wrist, but when Stiles turns in his direction it’s not his best friend he sees; it’s a stranger, his smile menacing and too bright in the dim lights of the bar. His eyes turn darker than they are naturally.

Stiles is Stiles, but he isn’t. Scott can smell as _otherness_ takes over, but he isn’t fast enough to tell Stiles. Not to tell him to steal back control or anything selfish like that; to tell him _it’s going to be okay_. He’s going to blame himself, and Scott doesn’t know how far it’ll go. If he’ll be able to convince Stiles he’s still a good person, he’s still family. He’ll still be okay.

“Stiles is out of commission for the moment,” he crows, licking his top teeth. “Try again later.” He snaps Jackson’s wrist backwards, dropping his hand and reeling back to deal a blow to the face.

\---

“What are you doing? How did you get inside of me?” pants Stiles, his eyes trying to adjust to the lack of light. All he can make out are silhouettes, bodies swaying as if to touch, but then quickly shifting away. There’s one that’s immobile; an unnatural stillness to it, peeking out from behind a wall once he speaks.

“I’ve been inside you your whole life, Stiles.”

           _I know your hopes,_

_your dreams,_

            _your fantasies._

                                    _The things that keep you up at night, crying yourself to sleep_

“Oh, Mommy, where are you? Why did you have to leave me?” it says, mocking.

A sharp set of fingers dig into Stiles’s neck, scraping at the flesh until it’s burning, itching. “I took her away! I took her! Ha! I took her and she _let_ me. I promised I’d leave her poor boy alone in exchange.”

“I don’t believe you. This isn’t real, this isn’t happening. I’m dreaming.”

Stiles smacks himself, once, twice. The sting of it is tangible; he closes his eyes, he opens them. There’s a hiss coming from behind him. He turns, slowly, his breath stuttering out in puffs of anxiety. “I’m dreaming,” he tells himself. “It’s just my mind playing tricks on me.”

Suddenly, there’s light coming from a crack in the ceiling; just enough that he can make out who’s hissing, who’s creeping in the shadows. It steps in close, right in front of Stiles’s face. It laughs, cupping each side of his head. “I lied,” he whispers in his ear, “to your dearest mommy.” He sucks in a wet breath, his teeth silver like cutlery, the bandages on his face smell of rotting. “I’m going to destroy you and everyone in your family.”

It digs its teeth into his flesh, ripping a chunk from his shoulder and spitting it out across the floor of what Stiles can now tell is a cemetery. “I won’t let you,” he cries out, biting his lip to endure the pain.

“But Stiles, I’m already out. You’re inside of me now. Inside my fantasies.” It laughs with a devastating roar, shoving him back and disappearing. The sound echoes even though there aren’t any walls, bouncing through the air, stomping on any hope of this being a dream.

Dropping to his knees, Stiles presses his fingers into the dirt. The tomb in front of him is his mother’s; the one next to it is his fathers, Scott’s, Jackson’s, Lydia’s, Derek’s, Allison’s. The name of everyone he knows is there, not his own.

“Your time will come when I’m done using up this young body,” it whispers from right behind him. His face is pushed into the dirt, and a hand climbs out; he recognizes his mother’s wedding ring as it digs into his scalp, trying to drag him in.

*

The creature wearing Stiles’s face smashes his fist into Jackson’s jaw, sending him crashing backwards, lights out as soon as he hits the ground. It turns to Scott next, smirking as it fists a hand in his hair. “If you want to see your friend alive ever again, I suggest you come with me, Scott.” He looks down at Jackson who’s groaning, rubbing a hand across his face. “I thought he’d put up more of a fight. I heard you werewolves were tough. Disappointing.”

It shoves Scott forward, pulling Jackson up by his hair at the same time. He tells him, “I suggest you pay the tab. Don’t draw any attention unless you want to clean up a bar full of corpses.”

Jackson glares, sliding his credit card from his pocket, heading to the bar, but the _thing_ yanks him back before he gets anywhere and head-butts him, knocking him out for real this time. He takes his card, striding off to the gaping bartender.

“This should cover the night.” He leaves the card with him and presses his fingers into Scott’s spine when he gets to his side. “We’re leaving now.

Scott’s tongue feels too thick to put up any kind of fight; this is his best friend, or it looks like him. He could never hurt Stiles, even if it meant losing his life – which this creature probably knows about. When it twists fingers in his shirt collar, he grits out, “What about Jackson?”

“Hmm, carry him for me like a good dog.”

 

\---

 

Scott’s forced to drop Jackson’s unconscious body behind the bar, in the bushes where he can’t see which way they go. Meanwhile, the monster hums and skips, pulling Scott along with him by his wrist, squeezing when he feels any hint of resistance.

They walk for what feels like an hour; it’s probably only ten minutes. The sky is so dark he can barely make out street signs, and no one approaches them; no one notices the pained look on his face every time it decides to make his bones creak with the strength of his hold. It stops, abrupt, in an alley that smells putrid and eats up any sign of light; it turns to Scott, sneering. “We’re here,” it sing-songs.

His face slams against the brick of one building, then his back is forced against the opposite side. Even with his arms pressed above his head, he growls, wanting more than anything to free Stiles from whatever has him in its hold. “Let him go!” he shouts, snapping his jaw in warning. “What are you?”

“Funny you should ask,” it says, slamming Scott’s head back. “I’m tricky. I like causing trouble. I’m older than you could imagine. In Japan, I’m known as the Nogitsune,” it purrs in his ear, twisting his arm behind his back. “Is that good enough for a baby Alpha like you?”

The Nogitsune covers Scott’s mouth as he’s about to speak, his eyes widening. It says, “I don’t care. Whatever you want to say, I won’t ever care. Listen to me, boy: I am a thousand years old. I could shake your world and leave you a ruptured mess. I destroyed his mother; slit her from the inside out. I am going to do the same to him, do you know why?” Scott rumbles behind its hand. “I said! Do you know _why_?”

Scott shakes his head, his eyes narrowed.

“Because I can,” it howls, clutching Scott around the throat. “I bet it would tear him apart if I killed you. Wouldn’t it? His family is honestly the best I’ve ever found to torment. I am going to enjoy this.”

It takes everything Scott has to fight. Everything and then biting into his lip until it hurts so much he turns in self-preservation. Stiles is a brother and more, the only one who’s always been by his side; it’s not fair that he’s being put through this on top of the rest. He lashes out as best he can, impaling Stiles – the Nogitsune - with his claws; it moans in pain, the eyes softening, the mouth going slack. Scott gasps, worried he went too far. Maybe it was all talk; maybe it was counting on this. Maybe this was the whole plan – to have him kill his own best friend in defense. He freaks out, kneeling down to follow Stiles’ body as it collapses in the damp alley. He touches his face, his hair, whispering, “Please, please, no, I didn’t mean to.”

The Nogitsune bursts out with a loud laugh, “You’re so weak! You were finally getting somewhere, you coward.” It uses Scott’s shock to reach for a broken bottle and slams it over and over into Scott’s face, tearing flesh from cheeks and neck. It goes in deep, partly because Scott is too consumed by the darkened look on his best friend’s face to dodge; partly because he forgot this wasn’t him at all; partly because he knows Stiles, and how he’s probably tearing his fingernails out trying to claw his way to the surface. But mostly because he’s _afraid_ , more so than he’s ever been before.

There’s a pipe left carelessly, five steps away, that Scott sees at the same time _it_ does; it walks over to it, dragging it along the cement as it approaches him. “Any last words?”

Scott holds his stomach, where it punctured with the bottle. “Don’t let it win, Stiles!” he screams, his eyes welling with tears. “I love you, buddy.” There’s no more fight in him; if he gave up, then what good is it for him to keep fighting. He closes his eyes, resigned to his fate.

There’s groaning above him, the pipe resting lightly on his shoulder. He opens his eyes to find Stiles, his brow tight from strain. He breathes out a sob, his arms shaking. “I can’t hold it for long, Scott. You need to run. Run and find help. Go get Jackson. Do what it takes.”

Scott doesn’t look at him as he stands, urged on by his words, running towards Jackson’s smell. If he looks, if he sees Stiles switch from his gentle soul to that demon, he’ll never be able to leave him behind. They’re meant to be a team, not enemies.

 

\---

 

Having spent most of the evening with Jackson, it’s easy for Scott to find him. He’s slowly waking up, a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face as he comes to full consciousness. Jackson holds his head, standing up with Scott’s help. “Are you okay?” he asks.

It throws Scott off; he was going to ask him. He’s the one who’s been knocked out for a good twenty minutes. Then he notices the tears in his shirt and how some of his wounds still aren’t healing. He shrugs. “I’ll be okay.” He walks him to a bench across the street so they can sit down. “I need your help though. Something is inside of Stiles and we need to get it out.” He winces, hoping this doesn’t bring back bad memories for Jackson; he barely made out of the Kanima mess alive.

“Yeah, um,” Jackson mutters, rubbing his forehead. “I have no idea what to do about that. I could tell he wasn’t himself.”

“Normally he wouldn’t punch you unless you deserved it,” agrees Scott, trying to smile. It hurts; his jaw aches from where the glass embedded for a bit.

“Is there anyone around who can help? Charles maybe? Do you think this is a mutant thing?”

Scott hums, considering. “I doubt it. That thing was pretty clear that it took over.”

“Jesus, that’s insane,” he says, frowning. “You actually spoke to it?”

Scratching his arm, he nods. “I didn’t have a choice, it covered my mouth.” He sighs, exhaling a shaky breath. His plans are never half as good if Stiles isn’t involved; he wouldn’t even have gotten away if it wasn’t for him. As much as Jackson wants to help, they’re just two followers with some extra strength – they can’t come up with a solution…

“Um, your phone is ringing,” says Jackson, pointing to Scott’s pant pocket lit up from the screen.

“Oh.” He flips it open. “Hello?”

_“Where’s Stiles? Why isn’t he answering my calls? I wanted to know if you found Jackson yet.”_

It’s Natasha – the Avenger, the one with connections all over the world. “Oh, god!” sighs Scott in relief. “Thank you. Natasha, I need your help. He’s not okay. Something is possessing him.”

She sounds as deadpan as ever. _“Like a demon or…?”_

Scott gives Jackson a thumbs up when he waves his arms around, asking what’s going on. “It’s a fox, I think. It said it was old and that it was in his mother before. It said...” He swallows. “...that it killed her.”

“Wow,” mutters Jackson, ducking his head. “That’s awful.”

_“That would explain a lot actually,” she says. “I’ll ask around. Try to stall for time.”_

She hangs up before Scott can say goodbye, which is just as well; he finds Dean’s phone number also folded inside the same pocket when he goes to put it back. Another call to make. Another chance to save Stiles and repay him for all the times he helped Scott through a rough time, near-death and almost killing.

 

\---

 

They’re in the mansion – Jackson’s old room – the safest place Scott could think of to make a call. He’s distracted, his mind running in four directions, his body still healing. They can’t afford to be taken off guard and get killed before they find someone to extract that creature from Stiles’ body.

Dean Winchester turns out to be a dead end; his angel is out of commission, suffering just as much as they are.

Scott lets his head fall into his hands. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Jackson raises an eyebrow, and Scott shakes his head. They can’t help this time.

_“Yeah, so if that’s why you were calling – he’s got no powers.”_

Just cause Dean can’t help doesn’t mean Scott can’t lend a hand. He’s in need just as he is; there might be something he can do while he tries to find a fix for Stiles. “Is there anything I can do to help? I’m sure Charles –”

_“No thanks,”_ says Dean. _“Take care of yourself. I hope you find someone who can help you.”_

Another line going dead in Scott’s ears; he grumbles, squeezing his phone in his hands. “I have no idea what we’re going to do.” Jackson is quiet. “Do you think he can find us here?”

“Even if he does, there are enough mutants here to stop him from doing much damage.”

“Yeah, but not to save him,” says Scott, pressing his fingers to his eyes to keep from crying. He wouldn’t approve of it; not when they still didn’t come up with a plan. Crying can come after, later when he knows Stiles is back to himself and safe.

 

*

 

Since the other guest rooms are taken by mutants who found their way to the mansion, as well as the ones brought by Logan, Scott has to sleep in Jackson’s bed. They stare at each other, both with an uncomfortable smile.

“Normally, I wouldn’t share my bed with anyone except if it’s a girl I plan to sleep with—”

Scott waves a hand, nodding. “I get it, totally. I’ll stick to my side.” He looks down at the bed; it is a queen size. This should be fine. It’s just for a little while. Maybe. Besides, if this is what it takes to help Stiles out, it’s nothing. “Which side do you want?”

“I’ll take the right, so I can reach the bedside. I like to drink water in the middle of the night,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’m gonna shower.” He stalks out, his shoulder hunched with as much tension Scott feels in his stomach as it swirls, and swirls.

_This is for Stiles_ , he tells himself. He has no right getting turned on by Jackson’s body – even if he’s showing off. Not that he doesn’t usually, or didn’t during lacrosse, wandering around with his hair damp and a towel around his slim waist. Scott swallows, banging the side of his head. Stiles is the focus!

Jackson steps into the room, a towel slung around his waist, as usual. “Your turn. I’m not sleeping next to a bleeding, smelly teenage boy.”

“Thanks…I guess,” mutters Scott, grabbing a change of clothes. “Where are the—”

“To your left, right across from the bathroom. There should be a few body ones left,” says Jackson, distractedly searching through the overnight bag he brought from his house.

“Right,” breathes Scott, his eyes glazing over as Jackson’s back muscles ripple and tighten. “Right, I’m going.”

Jackson snorts, pulling out a pair of black briefs. “Do that,” he laughs.

 

\---

 

The room is dark when Scott returns refreshed, his skin tingling as it heals up the last of the Nogitsune’s attack. “Jackson?” he whispers. “Are you asleep?”

“Trying to,” he groans from underneath the blanket. “Stick to your side.”

“No problem,” he whispers, creeping over to the left. The floor cracks as he walks, so he shuffles over faster, wanting to leap in bed to stop the annoying sounds. He slips underneath the blanket, careful not to tug it away from Jackson’s side. “Goodnight.”

“Mm,” he replies, his feet swishing against the sheets.

 

\---

 

_There's a she wolf in the closet,_  
open up and set it free.  
There's a she wolf in the closet,  
let it out so it can breathe.

 

It’s the strangest awakening Jackson’s ever had, including the time Danny drew a dick on his lower back because he fell asleep during Batman Begins. He slaps around, trying to find the source of that irritating singing and howling – the combination making his teeth ache – when he notices the arms encircling his waist, and his own leg pressed against a pretty interesting bulge.

“Scott?” he grunts, his throat hoarse and dry from the night’s sleep. “Scott!”

“Rmghf!” He looks up, one eye shut and his hair flat on one side. “Trouble?”

The one eye Jackson can see is turning red in preparation for a fight. Jackson taps him, to get him fully awake. “No, you idiot. Your phone is ringing. Again! Make it stop.”

“Oh!” Scott slithers to his side – where he was supposed to be – subtly dragging Jackson along with him, until Jackson slaps him to make him let go of his hips. “Hello?”

It’s like Scott’s ears perk up as he shifts to the edge of the bed, throwing his legs over the side. He’s kind enough to put the call on speaker this time, so Jackson isn’t left out of the loop again.

_“Why haven’t you been answering? I think I found a solution. Where’s Stiles now?_

Scott gazes at Jackson, wincing with his entire face; he looks the same as he did as a freshman. “We don’t know.”

_“Well, I’ll ask some friends to find him, then…”_ She pauses. _“I’ll bring Loki to cast a spell.”_

“Loki?” squeaks Scott, handing his phone over to Jackson so he can jump up and smack his face.

_“Yeah, Loki. I don’t like it either, but he’s our only chance. We can’t waste any time.”_

“How do you expect a trickster to help us out?” asks Jackson, handing Scott back his phone. “I saw what he did to his own brother—”

“ _Adoptive brother. Besides, Captain America himself is vouching for him. If anything goes wrong, you can blame him.”_

“What do you need us to do?” asks Scott, his knee bouncing already. It makes Jackson feel twitchy, wanting to shake along with him or jump out of his skin.

_“Just make sure your phone is on. I’ll give you updates as soon as I have any.”_

They both hold their breath as the line goes dead; Jackson waits for Scott to say something, but he doesn’t. He searches every dark recess of his mind for a consoling phrase, coming up blank. It doesn’t help that it’s about five hours too early for them to be up after that crazy night they had.

“Wanna…go out for breakfast?” It’s all Jackson can come up with; he’s good for money and not much else. It’s sad to consider, after all these years of life, he still doesn’t know how to be a human – even when he was one. Scott throws himself at him, squeezing so tightly Jackson questions whether wolves can become asthmatic. “Is that a yes?” he asks, tugging one arm from around his neck.

Scott smiles; although his eyes are red and wet, and so is Jackson’s neck. It’s his fault for not sleeping in more clothes. “I just wanted to thank you. You’ve been a good support.”

How in the hell is he any support? All he’s done is make awkward jokes, stayed quiet, and let Scott hug and cuddle him – that’s as far as his help has gone. “You’re welcome?” He shrugs, coughing into his fist.

“Let’s have that breakfast now.”

\---

They don’t have breakfast because Natasha calls to say Stiles is fine and Scott’s crying cuts Jackson’s appetite (though he’ll admit he’s glad to hear it). Between wiping his eyes and sniffling, Scott asks, “Should I thank Loki? Captain America?”

_“I wouldn’t worry. They’re busy with something else now. I’ll let them know you send your thanks though.”_

Jackson sips his coffee, adding sugar when it turns out to be too bitter. He licks his lips, his eyes getting heavy with sleep; they didn’t get much rest what with the worrying and the running around trying to be safe. Now he can stop all that, and he craves a warm, soft bed.

“And thank you, Natasha,” Scott says, beaming at his phone as if she can see him. His bloodshot eyes don’t make him look any less grateful. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

_“He is my cousin. A dear one at that. Anyway, I’ll send him to meet you guys at the mansion. Take care of him.”_

This time, the phone line cutting isn’t foreboding or stressful; it gives them a sense of relief. Stiles is safe, he’s okay according to the Avengers – which is a reliable source – and he’s going to meet up with them at one of the best guarded places around.

\---

As much as Jackson wants to scream to the high heavens that this is _his bed_ , and it’s not made for _three_ grown teenagers, Scott and Stiles are so exhausted (and he’ll admit he is too) that he just doesn’t bother. Somehow, he ends up in the middle, nowhere near his water bottle on the right but closer to the annoying ringtone on the left. Stiles cuddles up to him, even before he falls asleep, sighing hot breath into his neck. Scott has the decency to wait until his eyes are shut at least; then, and only then, does he wrap his arms around his waist again.

It’s not often that he feels lacking in the clothing department, but now is one of those moments. There are hands everywhere, hairy legs tickling his own, and heat of breath beating against his collarbones. Though it would take being held at gunpoint to admit, he likes the sensation of being surrounded. Not to mention that these two always somehow come out on top – and of course the part where they came all the way here just to see him and make sure he was fitting in (though he isn’t).

This part he can deal with; this part he likes. The part where they make him feel like he’s part of a pack instead of an omega suddenly forced abroad. This closeness they have with each other, shifting it onto him, including him. It’s only with these two does it ever feel like he could blend in and be part of something good. He’s falling asleep to that thought, both of them tightening their holds, as Scott whispers, “Welcome to the pack.”

Suddenly, he has it all.


	5. Defector-Vengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has his hands full with Loki who has (once again) betrayed his brother, Thor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, buddies. Hope you've enjoyed the journey.  
> Also, the end of this will lead into my marvel_bang story, for anyone who wants more Avengers. :)
> 
> plotholes possible (probable), please forgive them.
> 
> *Set somewhere after The Avengers (& Thor 2) and before the Winter Soldier.

Steve wonders if maybe, _just maybe_ , he hadn’t wanted to join the army, he wouldn’t currently be looking up at one of the tallest buildings in the world, Burj Khalifa, and trying to think of a way to stop two gods from destroying it (and each other).

Steve knows if he hadn’t joined the army, he wouldn’t have been experimented on; wouldn’t have lost his best friend; wouldn’t have become a Capsicle (StarkTM); wouldn’t have missed 70 years; and wouldn’t have to chase down his teammate, who also happens to be a thunder-god on a rampage against his not-brother - and Frost Giant royalty - Loki.

Oh, and Tony is no help at all. He said he’s busy with someone called _Dr. Manhattan_ or something. It didn’t ring any bells so Steve dismissed it as part of Tony’s lazy streak.

When a part of the roof nearly crushes innocent bystanders, Steve doesn’t wait around and grumble like he’s been doing; he runs up the stairs five at a time, slams his fist into the elevator button, and counts to keep from kicking the top of it to make it reach them faster. It pings on the 163rd floor.

He steps out calmly, dislodging his shield from his back while he sneaks out onto the roof. It’s quiet, too much so. He takes a few more steps, glancing back just in case they snuck into the elevator and went down –which they’ve done before.

“Thor?”he calls, “are you still here with Loki?”

“Indeed!”rumbles Thor as he and Loki crash into the cement of the roof, dragging it in a clear trail until they nearly fall off the edge of the building.

“Brother,”chuckles Loki, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “It’s not as though I wouldn’t have revealed myself eventually. You can understand how long I’ve been waiting to take control of the throne—”

Steve groans, ignoring the rest of that sentence. Foreign politics are _not_ his thing. But anything to do with gods and thrones cannot be anything but bad if Thor felt he had to bring his brother all the way back to Earth.

“Can’t you two deal with this on Asga—”

“No!”snaps Thor. “They would simply return him to his cell for ten of your lifetimes.”

“That’s no fun for you, is it brother?”asks Loki, teeth as pointed as daggers. He has the gall to cross his arms behind his head, as Thor fumes above him, both hands tangled in his dark cape.

“Do not anger me further, Loki. I thought you dead. I saw it with my own eyes this time. For you to use that as a ploy for the throne…”Even from where Steve stands, he can see the hurt in Thor’s eyes. On the other hand, his words are cut and rough as they escape his throat in a roar; Steve nearly steps back, worrying for his own safety. Sometimes, Thor can be more unpredictable than Hulk.

At the same moment that Loki opens some type of wormhole, dragging Thor and his red cape in with him, Steve gets a call from Nick Fury. He sprints to catch up with the tunnel as it begins closing. After he’s nearly to the sphere-shaped portal, he clicks on his earpiece.

“Sorry, sir, I’m still on it,”he says, racing full speed the rest of the way. “In Dubai, but not for long.”

_“_ _Did I hear correctly? Did you say Dubai? Please tell me it_ _’_ _s not their record-breaking building._ _”_

Never one to disobey an order, Steve stays silent. With not a second to spare, he plunges into the darkness, not knowing what’s on the other end. The tunnel ends abruptly and he lands on his shoulder, the shield taking most of his weight. He twists his head around, left and right, seeking them out. He spots them already racing down a street; Steve takes off on their heels.

 _“_ _Captain?_ _”_ asks Fury. _“_ _Steve! Where are you?_ _”_ he snaps.

Steve catches a few English street names as he whizzes by, then hears a tower ringing loudly and reverberating through the city. He sees it then, Big Ben. “England, sir. I’ll have to call you back.”He shuts their connection, focused on getting to Thor before he rips another coffee shop in half like he did in Vancouver.

The next person he calls is sighing before he even says hello; he can’t say he blames her –they always get into these inexplicably tight spots together, not that he can’t count on her to get them out of them.

 _“_ _What is it now? Don_ _’_ _t tell me_ _–_ _Loki,_ _”_ deadpans Natasha. _“_ _I just wish sometimes you_ _’_ _d call to say you bought me chocolates or a new dress._ _”_

“No you don’t,”laughs Steve, starting to break a sweat as they race straight down Windsor Street.

She sighs again. _“_ _What do you need me to do?_ _”_

“Help me separate Asgardians?”He winces at how pathetic that sounds, tripping over his footing when they suddenly turn into an alley ahead of him, leaping on top a roof of a fish and chips restaurant. He vaults himself up with one arm. “Are you busy? I know you took some time off.”

 _“_ _Steve, you know I_ _’_ _m always busy. But I can spare a few days._ _”_ He hears her jacket zipping up over the earpiece. _“_ _Where do I need to go?_ _”_

“Come to England, I can’t say where yet; somewhere near London. I’ll call as soon as I get Thor to calm down a bit,” he says, saluting a Foot Guard when he races past him. That actually makes him turn his head; he can’t wait to tell Clint he made the ‘immovable’ break his stance.

 

\---

 

There’s a limit to the amount of chasing Natasha likes doing; if she has a choice, she’d rather track down with devices and maps than on foot. She can certainly walk for a long time, but to run at nearly full speed for an entire day like Steve did –or is doing; she’s not sure since the local news haven’t updated yet –is just plain impossible for her. Not only does she not _want_ to do it, but it would make her mental faculties work slower, which in turn would affect her ability to attack and restrain in case she needed to apprehend Loki.

She won’t let Steve down, though.

She’s sipping an ice coffee, blending in and picking up newspapers and sneaking glances at whatever shops are showing the news rather than the latest game (not many, by the way; it’s a wonder any of them know the Avengers at all). Through that, she tracks them somewhere between London and Brixton, and she checks into a hotel –thanks to the trusty black card Stark gave to every Avenger to use for missions –and flicks on the TV, waiting for the next live footage of “Loki on a Rampage.”

That is honestly the dumbest headline choice she’s seen in a while.

About a day later, when a news report finally gives a useful update: “Captain America is in pursuit of both Thor and the criminal known as Loki down Neal Street.” They’re spotted running through a slew of tourists when Steve calls her.

 _“_ _Natasha, I really need your help. Thor is about to jump through Covent Garden because Loki said he is the rightful ruler of Asgard,_ _”_ he pants.

She can almost hear Loki’s smug, obnoxious voice through the words, even without Steve trying to imitate him. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

_“_ _I know I don_ _’_ _t need to say this, but hurry, please._ _”_

Any other authority figure - of which she’s had many –would have made it an order; Steve always softens his tone when it’s really important. It’s probably why she - along with the others - was so quick to take his commands. “I promise. I’m almost out the door.”

Just as she’s striding toward the elevator, pressing the G button five times in hopes that it moves faster, her cousin calls. “What is it?”she snaps, trying not to count the floors as she descends at a snail’s pace.

 _“_ _I lost my friend in England, and so did his mom. Also he_ _’_ _s a werewolf,_ _”_ he says in one breath.

She admires Stiles for always getting to the point, but also doesn’t understand how he attracts more problems than she does. Isn’t she one of the world’s saviours? If only people knew what her teen-aged cousin went through on a monthly basis…“Does that mean I should be following a trail of bodies?”

 _“_ _No, nothing like that. I don_ _’_ _t think._ _”_ He coughs.

“Stiles, I’m serious. Will I be endangering myself by going after him alone?”she asks, finally in the hotel lobby. Why in the _hell_ did she take the penthouse suite? Tony is the worst influence she’s ever met. Clint would be proud, though.

 _“_ _I really don_ _’_ _t think so. He just wandered off and the next full moon is in about a week so we want to make sure he_ _’_ _s in control before we let him do his own thing,_ _”_ he says with a resigned sigh. _“_ _It_ _’_ _s mostly because my best friend feels like it_ _’_ _s his fault for not overseeing the training._ _”_

“Another werewolf?”she asks, taking sunglasses from her pants pocket when someone seems to recognize her. She walks briskly, but not quickly enough to draw attention. If her plan is going to work, she needs to stay inconspicuous. “Anyway, fine. I’ll see what I can do.”She hangs up, giving a tight smile to a crossing guard who’s been gaping at her since she said ‘werewolf.’

 

*

 

Climb a wall, throw shield, leap, bound, reach for Thor’s cape, miss it, keep running, fall through a portal; end up upside down on the pavement, starting to breathe heavy, orient yourself, realize they’re getting away down the road toward tourists with too many cameras, jump in front, smile, block out Loki as much as possible, sign a few autographs; climb a wall, throw shield, leap, bound –wash, rinse, repeat.

Natasha finds Steve eating a banana-flavoured Popsicle in a ditch; it’s not the way Captain America has ever been seen, but he’s never felt more like his old self than in this moment. He’s covered in dirt and muck from running, wrestling, struggling to grab Thor’s bicep when he raised his arm to smash his hammer down on Loki’s green cape. He finally caught up to them on top of Big Ben –after Thor used it as a conductor for electricity and fried his adoptive brother. He pulled Thor aside for a stern talking to.

Thor couldn’t look him in the eye the entire time; it’s like he wasn’t himself for the entire time he was chasing Loki down, trying to keep him still enough to inflict instant punishment for his lies, his tricks, the hurt he inflicted on Thor.

The Popsicle’s not bad, Steve ponders. He heard rumours about what they use to create the artificial flavours; he hopes they’re wrong. Thor bought it, and bought himself a rainbow one. Loki is in Asgardian-made handcuffs, a special metal that shapes itself to any prisoner’s size. They could be useful to have here on Earth.

Natasha is tilting her head, an amused curve to her mouth. She takes a seat next to him, touching his shoulder gently. “How’s it going, big guy?”

If he didn’t have this treat, he thinks he’d feel worse. The healing factor helps too. “I’ll be all right. Thor caught Loki, and I caught Thor.”He points to a convenience store across the street, at the right angle for Steve to see if Loki or Thor escapes again.

She hums, looking over there. “That’s good.” She glances back at Steve. “Do you still need me?”

He chuckles, breathing out a laugh. “Yeah, probably. I don’t know when these two might start another fight. Loki could be planning an escape as we speak.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she says with her voice as void of emotion as if she were counting change. “Do you want me to bring you something?” She prods the cotton of his t-shirt where it’s torn. “Some clean clothes maybe?”

“I’d appreciate it,” he says, dropping his head. “I am in _way_ over my head.”He laughs, folding in on himself. “I used to think fighting against Thor was too much, but these two combined is more than even the serum can handle.”

Natasha stands, touching Steve’s shoulder. “You’re doing better than anyone else I know. I think you’ll be fine from here on.”She pats him softly, smiling. “I’ll be back shortly. Let me know if you change locations.”

 

\---

 

Thor is calmer now; he listens to Steve’s with that serious, intense look he usually has in his eyes. It’s intimidating to be watched so intently, with such obvious focus and admiration. But at the same time, he’s the same one who forced Steve to apologize to five countries on the way to England.

They sit in a park not far from where they almost destroyed one of the most important UK monuments. Loki is quiet, reading a book he conjured from some ‘other’ dimension that Steve doesn’t want to ask about; he might get ideas about other objects he could bring through –like a key to unlock the cuffs. That’s what Steve would do, unless there’s no way out of them.

Thor, sitting between them, glances at Steve. “I apologize—”

Steve waves it away along with the pull of his muscles. “It’s okay.”

Groaning, Thor grips Steve’s sore arm. “No! It was not proper of me to take out my anger, for a second time, on Midgard. It is just that Loki-- "At this, Thor glances over to him briefly.“--insists on taking the thrown by any means necessary.”

Loki flips the page of his book. “I thought it was quite clever, actually. Amusing, even.”He leans forward, casting a look at Steve. “I bet if I told your patriotic captain he would laugh."

“Loki,”warns Thor, slamming him back against the bench. “Do not test my patience. I wept for a brother who only sought to fool me again, constantly fooling me when I have faith in him once more.”

Steve is surprised by the touched pinch to Loki’s face. But within a flash it’s gone, as if it never was. He clears his throat. “Surely it isn’t my fault you’re so easy to fool, _brother_.”

“Enough!” roars Thor, jumping from the bench. “I will end you now if that is what you wish. Is it? Do you seek an end to your confusion? To your sadness? Must you take out all your grief on me, the only one left who still sees you as blood?”

Steve doesn’t know why, but he feels like he needs to touch Thor, to console him somehow. The more he hears about their messy family dynamics, the more he knows his own were very nearly perfect –while they were still alive at least. He steps in front of Thor who looks down, his jaw tight.

“Hey, buddy,” says Steve, “It’s going to be okay. I’ll help you sort this out.”

Thor shakes his head, dropping back onto the bench. “No, you can’t possibly. Midgardians have no authority in my realm. You are a speck to my father and his small-minded peers. It is part of why I refused the throne, to who I thought was my father.”He narrows his eyes at Loki, shifting on the bench closer to Steve.

“A speck?”Steve swallows, nodding since there’s nothing to say. He supposes to people who live for millenniums a hundred years _is_ a speck. Not that it feels good being compared to dust or a dead-by-night insect. “What’s your plan then?”

“I…have not one.”He holds up a hand when Steve’s eyes widen. “Yet! I will think of something to avoid more destruction on Midgard.”

“Thinking? You? Ha! This will prove interesting,”Loki mutters under his breath, flipping to the next page in his book.

That –along with the fatigue, the chasing, the snide comments, the events that Steve wasn’t present for and all the ones he was –sets Thor back into his furious mania from earlier. It’s as though he sees red like a bull, chasing it, fighting it, only to end up back where he was. Mad at himself for being manipulated. He’s the one with the red cape after all.

Steve isn’t fast enough to intervene, and Thor’s fist flies at Loki’s jaw, but he lifts his hands instead, shattering the cuffs and creating a portal beneath his feet. Thor leaps in and Steve has to follow.

Here they go again.

 

\---

 

Since Natasha can’t keep a lock on them long enough to help, Steve is on his own. Normally, she would have some elaborate trap set to catch both gods, and then all would be well in the world and they could peacefully return to New York where villains are both eccentric and harmless.

Not this time; this time Steve’s facing two of the best warriors in the world, Thor because of his leadership and reflexes in battle, and Loki because of his tactics and skills at magic. In a drastic situation, a drastic solution is needed.

He feels bad calling Bruce when he’s doing volunteer work in Sri Lanka, but it’s the only surefire way he can think of ending this chase. Bruce should know that duty comes first and life comes after – if you make it there. Bucky learned that the hard way.

Bruce’s number is on auto-dial, Steve being the only one with his contact information at all times in case of an Avengers issue. By Steve’s standards, and his pounding heart, this is a crisis that requires the Hulk.

Ahead of him, the two brothers slide into a lane-way, shouting things like, “Bildeschnipe would be fooled less often than you!” and “How dare you compare me to a foaming, mindless beast?”Steve is on their tail at last, his phone out and his finger poised to contact Bruce.

It’s unlike him, especially since drawing attention is the last thing they need, but he shouts, “I will call Hulk if you both don’t quit, and he’ll be here faster than either of you can escape through another magic hole in the ground. Do I make myself clear?”His chest heaves, and the air feels thick with his words as they linger menacingly.

Thor is the first to process this, snapping the cuffs onto Loki’s wrists while he’s still distracted. He shuffles guiltily to Steve’s side, bowing his head. “My apologies, Steven. I have shamed you and do not wish to face the green monster. Please do not call Bannerson.”

It’s a decent apology, especially the part about shame. It could be better since it took Thor only half a second to snap on and tighten Loki into his cuffs. Obviously, Thor was chasing him in some childish game, not really planning to hurt him when he caught him. At any moment, Thor could have locked him back up but he chose not to. If it weren’t for the yoga Steve’s been doing with Bruce, he might have shouted some expletives by now.

Instead, he says, “Thor, just...hand Loki over to me. That’s a direct order.”

“Yes, of course,”agrees Thor, nodding. “Here.”He yanks at the cuffs, forcing Loki to jerk towards them. Steve puts an arm on his shoulder, leading him out of the lane-way and back through the mass of tourists. Loki scoffs once, but when Steve shows him Bruce’s photo and the number in his address book, he straightens and looks away; still defiant but unwilling to be smashed into the ground for a second time.

 

*

 

Natasha is a sweetheart: she’s loyal, strong, intelligent and fierce. She’s a lot of things. She’s _not_ sharing her penthouse suite with Loki and Thor (who still can’t manage to work a toaster). Even so, she agrees to meet Steve close to where she’s staying, not bothering to mention how she has the black card (Steve apparently forgot his in the mad rush to chase Thor through time and space).

At their meeting point –a small café on the edge of London –Steve looks and smells ten times better than the last time she found him. He’s even got the glazed look of someone who just won a small lottery. She jogs over, taking the empty seat he left for her. Loki and Thor are at the table next to theirs, both wearing regular clothing instead of their armour.

“You look pleased,” she tells Steve, reaching for his warm cup and sipping it. “Chamomile?”

“It works,” he says with a slight laugh. “And you’re right: I am pleased. But I don’t want to jinx it, so that’s all I’ll say.”

“I don’t believe in superstition,” she says, eyeing Loki when he tries to subtly give her a once-over. “Keep your eyes above the shoulders.”

Thor narrows his gaze, punching Loki in the shoulder; more a playful, brotherly gesture than a criminal’s punishment. Their familial ties are showing, and the last thing she wants is to feel that Loki is anything but a prisoner. Losing focus would turn him from ‘threat’ to ‘interest.’ It’s happened before - with Clint. It can’t happen with him; he brainwashed the man who led her away from mindless killing.

“What’s the next step?” she asks, leaning in conspiratorially. “I sense you have a plan now that level-headed Thor is back.”

Steve smiles, his eyes clear and focused. “You betcha. Fury wants an update, so I’ll let him know. Then Thor needs to contact the Asgardian elders –and his father –to figure out if Loki is staying on Earth as an exile or going back to his cell there.”

“How could being exiled here be a punishment? Why would they even allow—”

Thor cuts in, “It is because, Lady Natasha, he would be required to assist me in my role of protector of Midgard. And I would ensure he cause no innocents harm.”

The comment is on the tip of her tongue, just a few words: _because that went so well the first couple times._ Steve is her saving grace though, grabbing her arm to stop its escape. He shakes his head, his eyes pleading for her to keep quiet. He says, “I’ll be watching him too if that’s what they decide. Not to mention Bruce could scare him some more if he gets outta line.”He grins over at Loki who’s rolling his eyes.

“Okay, seems like you’ve got it all figured out - minus the part where you have nowhere to stay, right?”

“Exactly,”admits Steve, colour high on his cheeks. “Would you happen to know somewhere? I’d owe you one if you could help us out. I forgot—”

“--your black card. I figured. Did Thor forget his too?”

Thor chuckles softly, scratching at his nape.“Indeed. I apologize for my careless behaviour. This is entirely my doing.”

“Yep,” she deadpans, uncrossing her legs to stand. “I’ll find you guys somewhere and send the coordinates.”

The place she tracked the werewolf Stiles was after has an abundance of rooms. A jarring amount of space was just waiting to be filled with the oddities of the world. Charles told her himself: “I welcome anyone who’s ever felt a bit outside of society’s norms.”If superheroes (and anti-heroes) don’t apply, then he should expect a disgruntled visit from her soon.

 

*

 

“I know I sounded desperate, but this is taking it a bit far, Natasha,”he says, observing as part of the Xavier mansion crumbles off to one side. She’s only on his earpiece, but he can feel the grin through the wireless connection somehow, traveling through the current of signals.

 _“_ _It can_ _’_ _t be that bad,_ _”_ she says, the click of her smile confirming his thoughts.

“No, part of it just fell into the front yard and I didn’t even get to the steps yet,”he says, frowning. At that, Loki laughs softly behind his hand, turning away when Steve aims a glare at him. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I guess we’ll help out if they let us stay. You said we were coming, right?”

The line is silent.

“Right, Natasha?” he asks, his voice getting higher as he continues to ask. “Natasha!”

 _“…_ _No,_ _”_ she says. The line cuts out.

“Well, great! Just peachy,” grouses Steve, throwing his hands up in defeat. “We don’t even know if they’ll take us in.”

Loki steps forward, ahead of them. He walks backward so he can keep eye contact to say, “But who would _dare_ turn down the great Captain America?” His smile widens after he winks, and Steve has to tear his eyes away because of the flip-flop in his stomach. Was that flirting? Does Loki flirt?

There’s no time to wonder because Loki’s at the large door, knocking three times with both hands still joined by the cuffs. “Hello?”he intones, looking back at Thor and Steve with wide eyes. “Maybe no one’s home.”

 _“_ _I was expecting you,_ _”_ a voice says.

Steve cranes his neck for the source, looking to Thor for answers afterwards. “Did you hear that?”

Thor nods, grunting and taking a step in front of Steve. “It sounded as though inside my head.”

“If anyone cares, I heard it as well,” says Loki, exasperation clear from his sigh. “No one asks me anything of importance.”

 _“_ _Please come in,_ _”_ the voice says. _“_ _I_ _’_ _m just a bit occupied with repairs at the moment. You_ _’_ _ve no doubt noticed the roof collapsing._ _”_

If voices had a colour, this one would be blue: calm and serene. It’s affectionate, soothing. It doesn’t frighten Steve, exactly, just startles him with how intimate it feels; like it knows his entire life, even the parts before the serum. One glance at Thor, his brows furrowed, gives Steve confirmation that he’s experiencing it too. Loki seems nonplussed, walking inside as though it’s normal to both have your mind read _and_ manipulated.

It might be for him, Steve considers. It doesn’t stop him from putting his guard up, nodding for Thor to raise his hammer as they go into the mansion.

Since Loki went in ahead, he’s sitting with a bored look on his face on an elaborate staircase leading to the second floor. “I don’t sense any danger. Can we finally do something interesting and meet the one capable of toying with our minds?”

Steve latches his shield onto his back, taking in the state of the mansion. The crumbling isn’t due to inattention or lack of funding; it was clearly an attack –some type of surge of power or being (like Hulk) went through the mansion, devastating it from the inside out. Besides the ceiling, a wall is missing; there are cracks in some of the floors; and not to mention the number of shattered windows. Luckily, the shards have already been taken care of.

“I think…they’re going to need a hand,” murmurs Steve. “Know if your father would approve of Loki using his powers to restore this place?”He grips Thor’s shoulder to get his attention away from the devastation.

Thor seems taken aback at first by the physicality, but as Steve’s about to pull away, he smiles. He even places a hand on top of his. “I believe he would approve most vehemently. It is what our mother would have wanted.”

“Did she use magic like him?”asks Steve, struck by curiosity. He’d always figured the whole ‘adopted’ thing explained why Loki could use magic and Thor couldn’t; maybe it’s more like he _learned_ to and Thor didn’t bother.

“She did indeed. You are aware that I can speak for myself?”interjects Loki, standing from the stairs with a huff. “I do not mind repairing this chaos if they provide a large enough bed.”He leans a hip against the bannister. “However, I’d need both my hands for something of this difficulty.”He raises his cuffs, shaking them with a slight grin.

Steve wants to believe him, but come on: this is Loki. Mischief is his middle name, his title even. He’s nicknamed ‘the Trickster’ for crying out loud. Only a fool would trust him so readily when—

“All right,”says Thor, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Though, if I see any attempts to flee, I will kill you.”

Loki sighs. “Yes, you’ve said it before. I haven’t forgotten.”He rattles his cuffs. “Now, free me so I may begin and then seek out the man with the remarkable telepathy.”

“You are not to harm him!” warns Thor, nudging Steve for confirmation.

Of course, Steve agrees. The part that he’s stuck on though is how quickly Thor was manipulated…again. This has to be at least a dozen times since Steve has known him. Imagine how many more times it’s been in his thousand plus years of life. It’s astounding.

 

\---

 

They go upstairs where most of the damage seems to be concentrated. Loki races up the steps with a carefree, child-like skip to his gait. He peeks over his shoulder, whistling a tune Steve can’t quite place, a popular song of this era (by Lady Gargle or someone like that).

Thor groans from behind him, shouting, “Brother! You know I do not like that song implanted in my thoughts.”

“Oh, but I do,”purrs Loki with delight. “I have to get amusement wherever I can, don’t I?”

There’s something odd happening and it makes Steve wary. They’re behaving well for one; they haven’t argued since they left the café; Loki hasn’t tried to escape yet (small miracle), and Thor isn’t letting his emotions carry him away through more portals. It feels weird somehow, like there should be a challenge for Steve. Yet, there isn’t one.

Then they meet Charles. He’s waiting in the room with the most destruction, fists balled up and on his hips. He looks at them, humming. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen your feats on television. My name is Charles Xavier.” _I was the one speaking inside your minds._

Steve wants to get the intrusion out, physically if he can. He knows he can’t, though. It doesn’t stop him from shoving a finger in his ear like an itch he can scratch away. Thor’s brows shoot up, and he starts clapping heartily. He says, “Incredible! That is a wonderful talent.”

Charles ducks his head, a soft smile on his face. “Are you here because you need somewhere to stay?”

“Yeah, we are,”says Steve, watching as Loki takes measured steps towards Charles.

He stops in front of him, tilting his head one side then the other. He walks around Charles, tall enough to look down on him like a specimen under a microscope. If it were Steve, he’d be insulted by the scrutiny; however, Charles’s smile remains in place, his blue eyes kind but keen. Loki touches his forehead, and Charles takes his hand away, still gentle and patient about it. “I’d prefer if you just asked what you’d like to know regarding my gifts.”

“But there isn’t as much amusement that way,”teases Loki, going back to Steve’s side. “I think we’ll enjoy it here. His mind reading could come in useful for meals.” He smiles with all his teeth.

“Loki! We are not here as guests,”admonishes Thor. “You must show our host respect.”

Charles laughs, waving a hand. “It’s quite all right. I don’t do the cooking anyway. You’d have to ask someone else who’s willing.” He looks up at the cracked ceiling. “One of the students had a _misunderstanding_ with another. Would one of you be able to help with repairs? In exchange, you are welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“That would really help us,”says Steve, perking up. Now they’re talking. Finally, there’s some good news. “What do you say, Thor?”

“Anything you command I will do my best to obey,”he says, straightening his posture as if speaking to a high-ranking officer during war. “As Loki is in my charge, he shall therefore follow my lead.”He narrows his eyes at his brother, daring him to disagree.

Loki folds his hands behind his back.“Yes, yes. No need for your display of dominance.”

 

*

 

Scott Summers is young, but something about him feels familiar. Steve wonders if it’s because of their personalities, their empathy for others –even those who sometimes don’t deserve it –the commanding tone of his voice, which people have also said of Steve. Whatever the case, Steve likes being around him. He’s a good man.

Later, when Charles admits Scott’s the one who did the damage, even that doesn’t sully Steve’s view of him. Everyone loses their way; takes a wrong turn; does something they regret. It’s all about how you deal with it afterwards. And, well…Scott offers to make them supper as thanks for cleaning up his unexpected tantrum. They deserve it, he says.

“They”turns out to be Loki rebuilding the mansion on his own. Steve and Thor aren’t far –having to keep an eye on him in case he opens another portal to some desolate place. They’re poised to tackle, if it comes to that. Loki just scoffs at them, raising a challenging eyebrow. He tells them, “If I wanted to leave, I would have done so immediately. I am here because I choose to be.”

That’s somehow worse. Loki isn’t leaving because he _wants_ to help? Is that what he’s saying? Steve scratches his head, already feeling a migraine coming on. These manipulative people and their mazes of mind tricks; why can’t he just be straightforward like Deadpool: Mexican food and killing. Arrest on sight. Instead Loki smirks, flutters his lashes at Steve, trying to be coy or pretty –which Steve would be hard-pressed to admit to–

All coherent (and baffling) thoughts leave Steve once Loki begins his magic.

The damage rewinds, like a VHS, reverting to its previous state. Bricks and cement, glass, wood, window panes, everything returns to how it must have been before the aggression. With just Loki’s hands dancing through the air, conjuring these gorgeous green threads of power, all is well. How is this bright-eyed man the same as the ever-mocking, cold, selfish act Loki insists on playing?

Perhaps because Thor has seen this so much, growing up with Loki, he can forgive more easily. There’s always a glimmer of hope in his eyes, even now, as he watches with the same fascination as Steve. Both of them drop their positions to instead take in the beauty of the jade magic that floats unbidden, shimmering.

With his back to them, Loki breathes out deeply once he’s done. He drops his head, his hair cascading over his shoulders. He wipes his hands off with pride at what he’s accomplished, turning to give them his usual grin. This time, Steve doesn’t blush; he stops breathing.

Loki’s skin is indigo, symbols and markings accentuating the hard lines of his jaw and the lean muscles in his hands. Even the ruby colour of his eyes fits well with the long dark attire he’s wearing. There’s not a single piece out of place; this is the real Loki, his true face, and Steve cannot deny its charm. He’s at once exotic and foreign, two things which have always attracted him.

“What?”he asks, his brows creased. “Have I got something on my face?” He raises his hands, turning them over. “I see. Well, I suppose I used too much magic.”

“Loki,” breathes Thor, walking over to him. He presses his large hands against his brother’s shoulders, something Steve would do if they were close (and if he was trustworthy). “I have never seen you in your natural form. It is truly remarkable.” His hands are careful as they cradle Loki’s jaw. “This appearance suits you well. It matches your fluctuating moods, brother.”

Steve agrees with all of the above. Not only does it somehow make Loki, strangely, more approachable, but he seems entirely awed by Thor’s reaction. Maybe in Asgard blue skin is something to be ashamed of; it might be on Earth, too, if more than a handful of people had it. To Steve, though, the colour of your skin doesn’t change your worth; what matters is your actions.

For now, Loki’s on the right track. He’s doing good because he wants to rather than as punishment. He’s proving he can be better. Besides, everyone deserves a second chance; Bucky would be the first to say that no one is perfect-- while being one of the greatest men Steve’s ever had the privilege to know.

He starts to tear up thinking about how much he misses him. If Bucky were here right now, he’d make a joke about Steve being too soft, maybe even ruffle his hair despite being a few inches shorter. It would lighten the mood, break up the tension.

Scott takes his place instead. “Whoa,” he says, taking in Loki’s blue colouring. “That’s new.” He laughs, wiping his hands down his slacks. “Anyway, I made some chicken with rice. It’s not much but it should hit the spot.”

“Thank you,”says Steve, reaching to shake his hand. “I appreciate it.”

“No, thank you. I couldn’t have fixed the mansion this fast on my own. I felt so bad for what I did,” he says, his shoulders drooping. “It’s important that I control myself; otherwise, accidents like this happen.”

Thor strides over, a relaxed smile on his face.“You cannot always do what is right. I was a fierce warrior in my younger years, always seeking battles for the chance to meet an opponent I couldn’t defeat.”

“And look at you now. A member of the famous Avengers and guardian of Midgard,”says Loki, sounding more sarcastic than genuine. “My, how you’ve grown, brother.”

Scott coughs at the same time that Steve clears his throat. “I’ll set a few place-mats down and you can come in the kitchen in a few minutes,”says Scott. “By the way, it’s great to meet you.”

Not that it matters, but Steve wonders if the ‘you’ is purposely ambiguous so that Loki can feel included, despite the Avengers infamy being a consequence of his reign of destruction in New York. It’s hard to tell what the kid is thinking, not to mention the visor covering part of his face.

Steve’s inside his thoughts so long, he nearly misses the way Thor grabs Loki by the collar, growling into his ear and shaking him. The easy banter felt better; this anger only brings back memories of fighting and explosions, people running, _dying_. Thor looks about two seconds from pummelling his brother, which is why Steve steps in, placing his hand low on Thor’s back.

“Hey, easy there,” he says, giving Thor a smile for his strained look. “We’re supposed to be enjoying the meal Scott prepared.”

“You are right, as usual, Captain.” He jerks his hands away from Loki, carefully smoothing down the creases he made. “I will change into something less restricting.”

Thor holds Steve’s shoulder, squeezing a bit. Then, he goes up to their assigned rooms, leaving Loki behind to gawk at the disorienting turn of events. He looks to Steve, moving closer. The blue of his skin still as vivid and appealing as it was previously, he catches only the tail end of what Loki’s saying. “…so thank you.”

“Um, for what?” asks Steve, blinking. If ever there was a time to pay attention, now would be it. Or the moment _before_ now. The one that just passed - involving Loki thanking him.Loki groans, stomping up the stairs and away from Steve. Guess that train left the station. Wherever it was going.

 

\---

 

Supper is nice, and tastes good too. The only downside –besides the portion size, which Steve would have been content with before the serum –is the amount of phone calls he receives. One after the other after the other, he misses a handful of calls from increasingly frantic sounding friends.

Bruce is the first to leave a message: _‘_ _Hi, Steve, please remove Tony from the Avengers. I think you have the power to do that, right? He_ _’_ _s driving me crazy. I keep telling him I_ _’_ _m not that kind of doctor and he doesn_ _’_ _t care. He doesn_ _’_ _t care at all! I even fell asleep and he kept talking for an hour! Steve help, I need to continue my research. Okay, call me back._ _’_

He runs upstairs to fetch his phone, putting it in his pocket so he can at least join in the supper chit-chat while avoiding calls and text messages filling up his memory card. It doesn’t help that his iPhone keeps crashing right as he presses enter to reply. He might be doing it wrong.

Loki is cutting his chicken into equally-sized cubes, eyeing Steve and his vibrating phone with growing interest. “Are you needed elsewhere?”he asks with a curl to his lip.

Thor’s eyes sparkle at that; he might be imagining a mission far, far away from his brother and portals. Unfortunately, Steve’s problems are a bit more mundane.

Pepper’s phone message is next: _‘_ _Hi, this is Pepper. Anyway, Tony is driving me crazy. I don_ _’_ _t know what_ _’_ _s wrong with him, but I have work to do. I can_ _’_ _t deal with his insomniac calls and his splurging_ _–_ _especially since I_ _’_ _m the CEO and oversee all account activity. When are you coming back? He needs something to do, even if it_ _’_ _s just training with you and Thor. I think he misses you guys. Take care._ _’_

When Clint calls, blowing raspberries of boredom and going ‘ugh’ every five seconds, Steve has reached his limit (and beyond). He knows now why technology is so frail nowadays; it’s because people get so frustrated they end up throwing the device and breaking it so they can have peace for a short while.

For dessert, Scott made fruit tarts with home-made custard, but Steve can’t even enjoy them because his phone starts buzzing again. He must be oozing with irritation because Loki reaches for his phone, and in his frustration, he lets him take it out of his hands.

Loki, after licking pastry from his index finger, presses talk. “Hello? Yes, this is the right number. Yes, I’m Loki. No, he won’t be coming to the phone because I have him captive. Please pass on the message to the others disturbing him. Good evening.”He hangs up, passing the phone back. “That should allow you some silence.”

The table is quiet: Scott having choked on his bite, Steve holding his phone and staring at a black screen, and Thor rumbling with some unidentified emotion. To be fair, most of his emotions overlap each other. It’s only when he roars out a laugh that Steve decides it _is_ pretty funny, starting to laugh himself. Scott joins in soon after, shaking his head. All Loki does is smile, pretending he has no clue what’s happened.

 

*

 

Steve finds out Scott has a boyfriend, not from being curious or asking, but because said boyfriend was moaning his name upstairs while (clearly) masturbating. If they aren’t attached, well, that’s just awkward.

In the morning, Steve then meets aforementioned boyfriend. He looks them up and down, an unimpressed look on his face. He groans and grunts like an animal, scratching at his belly and taking a seat at the kitchen table. Loki pulls a face like he’s just licked a lemon, and Thor smiles so very wide you’d think he found his soul-mate.

Likewise, they all eye Logan as well. Then, as Steve guessed, Scott kisses the hairy, angry-looking man in a display of affection that would be downright filthy in the 40s. He whispers something to his boyfriend that must be equally as X-rated because the man actually smirks and nods. They skip off together like a couple of horny teenagers –which Scott is, and his boyfriend is not –leaving them behind with nothing to eat for breakfast.

Loki grumbles, “I can’t understand how anyone in this house gets anything done if all they do is copulate.” With a swish of his wrist, there are eggs, bacon and potatoes on their plates. “Eat it before it gets cold,” he adds, deadpan.

“Thank you,”says Steve, because he has manners even if it’s a criminal feeding him magically-made breakfast.

“Indeed!”mumbles Thor, his mouth already full and a child’s grin on his face.

\---

Logan must have missed the memo about the mansion being fixed; he went upstairs with Scott and proceeded to have the loudest sex of anyone Steve’s ever known –past and present. For a second, he wonders stupidly, if it’s due to any mutant abilities; but who would want the power to be loud at sex?

Not him certainly. He seems to be the only one bothered (or maybe aware) of the loud, lewd behaviour happening a few rooms down from them. Thor spends most of the two hours it lasts trying to learn different ways to tie bow-ties and laces. Loki, meanwhile, reads through almost an entire book, his skin still blue from head to toe. Steve only knows because he changed to flip flops, and his toes are also blue and covered in pale markings.

\---

It’s day three, and still no word from the ruler of Asgard about what to do with Loki. Steve assumes that means he’s going to stay on Earth for an extended period of time – not that he minds if Loki remains as meek as he is now. Though, it might not last long; anyone could get stir crazy if stuck somewhere they don’t want to be.

They sit outside on the staircase in shorts and t-shirts, relaxing and drinking coffee. Loki has mint tea and biscotti that he refuses to share. There’s quiet until footsteps come out to join them. It’s early enough that Steve wonders why Logan is awake, a coffee in hand as well.

This might be a good time to discuss a few things – not related to Scott because _no_. Tony said recruitment’s not the same as shameless self-promotion; and Steve took it to heart, despite not being fully in agreement. Thor is humming the song Loki got stuck in his head, and that’s when Steve figures _what the heck_. Natasha has a lot of personal projects, so maybe she wants to take some time off. He could find her a replacement.

“Logan,”he says, sitting up straighter. It doesn’t need to _seem_ haphazard, even if it feels that way. “Would you like to join the Avengers?”

Logan raises a brow. “Are you serious, kid?”

Thor growls, his hackles rising in defence of Steve. He touches his arm to calm him, shaking his head. Loki snorts, dipping biscotti in his tea and munching on it quietly. After a soft sigh, Steve continues, “It’s just, you seem to be wasting your potential just…what do you do here?”

“Besides fuck Scott’s brains out?” He laughs when Steve winces at his choice of words. “Not much.”

“I see,” says Steve, drinking the rest of his coffee.

Logan takes a cigar from his plaid shirt pocket, lighting it. Between his teeth, he says, “I’ll pass for now. I’m okay with my untitled position here at the mansion.”

Steve tries not to sound too disappointed; he knows he fails when Logan puffs out smoke, his eyes softening.“Oh, I understand. Well, if you ever change your mind I’ll leave Tony Stark’s number with you.”

Logan’s eyes widen. “ _The_ Tony Stark? That billionaire douche?”

Steve laughs, glancing at Thor who’s grinning too. “That’s the one. He’s part of the Avengers.”

“Huh,”says Logan, scratching his chin. “I’ll think it over.”

“I appreciate it,”says Steve, shaking Logan’s hand. He bumps Thor’s shoulder with his own, standing up. They leave their cups off to the side of the staircase, just for now, so they don’t cause any accidents. “Wanna go for a run?”

“Certainly, Captain.” Thor jumps up from his spot, twisting his shoulder this way and the other.

“See you later,”says Steve, and they begin their jog. Loki stays behind, giving Logan a look he’s never seen on his face before. Then they’re out of sight, and he can’t see what happens next.

*

It’s still pitch black outside when Steve’s phone vibrates. For some unknown reason, Loki’s in his room, sitting on the floor. He seems to be meditating. Maybe it’s how he wills the blue skin away.Steve will deal with that after. He clears his throat. “Hello?”

_“_ _Steve, I know you_ _’_ _re dealing with the Loki fiasco, but I have a problem._ _”_

He sits up right away, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He senses he needs to be fully awake for this. Natasha never sounds this ‘emotionally compromised’, as she would say, unless it’s about someone dear to her. “Is it Clint? Did something happen?”

_“_ _No, it_ _’_ _s my cousin. He_ _’_ _s been_ _…_ _possessed by something._

That wakes him right up. In their line of work, magic and powers and flying and all that stuff is commonplace. Demonic possession is not so much their forte. Loki’s looking directly at him, he notices, wondering not for the first time what he’s thinking. He seems to raise an eyebrow, questioning. Steve ignores him and bites the inside of his cheek. “What are you thinking? Get some mutant with healing powers? Ask Thor to contact the healers in Asgard?”

 _“_ _No, I doubt he has enough time for that._ _”_ She swallows with a click, letting out a shaky sigh. _“_ _I think you know._ _”_

The red eyes peer at him in the dark, cloaked in shadows and long, black hair. Steve swallows, too. “Loki?” If she’s considering him, this must be worse than Steve thought. “Has it gotten that far already –the infection or whatever?”

_“_ _He tried to kill his best friend with a pipe._ _”_

The world just gets worse and worse. Finally, he thought they were getting somewhere and he could take a break. But now this; and he can’t turn Natasha down because she comes if he calls her, even halfway around the world. She did, in fact, do that for this Thor-chasing mishap.

Loki unfolds his long legs, standing as gracefully as a ballet dancer, stretching his arms above his head. His look is determined, his eyes going back to his usual jade. Pale skin follows. Steve blinks, mesmerized by the transformation, but also in understanding that he’s willing to help. Or, at least, wants to give the illusion that he is for his own benefit.

Either way, Natasha waits on the line, her breathing louder. Steve nods at Loki, telling her, “I think he can do it. We’ll be as fast as possible. Your cousin’s going to be fine.”

When he hangs up, Loki says, “I will go wake Thor.”

With one hand reaching for the lamp light, Steve sputters, “But you don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet.”

“It matters not in the scheme of things. I’d rather busy myself with good deeds if it means fewer years spent doing mindless tasks in this already dull realm.”His grin is playful and even flirtatious; it catches Steve off-guard, and turns the tips of his ears red.

Before Steve can say anything else, he’s gone through the door. His steps creaking quietly down the hall.

 

*

 

Step one: waking Thor up without waking the entire mansion of resting (or injured) mutants. It requires a delicacy that only someone who has been bullied would have acquired. Apparently, Loki and Steve have that in common because he knows exactly how to wake Thor without getting a hammer to the side of the head and lightning coming through the window. It would help if Steve could also conjure up gentle, soothing spells that slowly wake Thor up, but no one can have it all.

Once Thor is up, he is alert and sympathetic to the cause. He nods after each detail Steve says and scrubs his beard thoughtfully, glancing over at Loki every so often. Before Steve can tell him that Loki will be the one to eject the demon (or whatever it is possessing Natasha’s cousin), he stands up from his bed and says, “I believe Loki could complete this task without our assistance.”

Loki and Steve are surprised by this. Huffing out a laugh, Loki folds his arms behind his back. “I must say, brother, I didn’t expect you to agree so quickly.”

“I’ve seen your capability for kindness, Loki. Do not try to play the role of villain. It suits you ill.”

This, Loki laughs at, while Steve gapes, looking between the brothers and their bickering. It’s more affectionate than aggressive as it was a year ago. Or even a few days ago. Steve pats Thor on the back, feeling proud.

 

\---

 

Step two: locating Natasha’s cousin without drawing attention to themselves, and only by using a photo she sent through Steve’s phone. With Loki’s powers, it’s easy enough to locate Stiles. The next part is just as simple since they use one of his portals to get to where her cousin has been hiding: a bar at the edge of town. The unfortunate part –and something Natasha probably didn’t know –is that the thing inside of her cousin happens to have bodyguards.

Five dark-suited, sword-wielding entities appear from thin air, standing between them and Stiles. Their masks are metallic and beast-like as they approach with a military walk. It’s a relief that they managed to get him outside of the bar before. There’s no doubt that the fight’s going to be messy.

Not for the first time, he wonders if the serum causes more bad days than good. Sure he’d be dead now without it, a sword slicing the ends of his blond hair off as he ducks down, but he could have just as well lived a normal life outside of the army and died of old age. Died without having to see Bucky fall from the train and lose his life full of potential.

Thor doesn’t risk calling up lightning and hitting passersby; he swings his hammer, pinning the monsters to walls and sending them into the sky as far as he can, smashing their strikes with Mjolnir and nearly cracking their blades. They get wiser when they’re losing. They grapple for Thor, three at a time, holding him down. The other two slice and swish through the air, flipping over Steve and dodging Loki’s green magic as he sends it in their direction.

The one he finally hits is stunned instantly, falling onto his back like a statue. The other digs its blade into Steve’s shoulder, a pain coursing through him that he’s never felt in his life –worse than any night he spent praying that his asthma wasn’t going to kill him after all.

Steve nearly collapses from the pain, but the ninja fighter keeps him standing with the blade, trying to twist it. Loki rushes toward him, pressing both hands to the entity and sending a jolt of green into his skull. He drops like the previous one.

Only three left –

Thor bellows with his arms outstretched as lightning travels through his limbs and into the three fighters surrounding him. They fall over, smoking and motionless, their swords clattering next to them. Their eyes are sunken in, their masks warped from the heat of the strike.

All eyes turn to Stiles, who visibly stiffens at their attention. Steve stumbles forward, leaving the sword in just in case the wound is deep enough to have hit some nerves. He stands with one arm up, his hand balled into a fist, ready to fight. Thor stands next to him, swinging his hammer around and around, until the momentum is impossible to follow by eye.

Loki steps in front of them, turning to say, “I should have no problem, but I will require a moment alone with him.”

In other words, _if you don_ _’_ _t trust me, now_ _’_ _s your chance to back down and try a different approach_. From what Steve’s feeling, and the darkness in this teenager’s eyes, they don’t have time to doubt each other. He nods, and so must Thor because they’re gone in a cloud of green. The fighters disappear too, following their master maybe.

Steve uses the shield to lean his weight on, his shoulder burning from the edge of the sword still in the wound. Since they can’t do anything but wait (and hope Loki isn’t up to no good), they stand there patiently. Thor looks over at him, his eyes softening. He offers his shoulder for Steve to lean on, and he takes it gladly, wincing when his the position shifts the blade. As he looks down, noting how much blood has stained his Captain America suit, Loki poofs back into view.

The teenager is unconscious but no longer homicidal from what Steve can tell. Loki smiles, holding him bridal style, his face slowly shifting back to a blue hue. “He should be all right with a bit of rest. Convey the good news to Miss Romanov.”

Thor looks to at Steve, his smile hesitant this time. Steve groans as his shoulder feels raw, open. If he doesn’t want it to be infected, they need to trust Loki one more time. He nods to him, his gaze wavering from the pain. With a flick of his wrist, Loki opens up a portal for them and they return to the mansion for some much needed rest. The moment Steve’s head touches a pillow he passes out. Even with the sword still embedded, it would have been the same.

 

\---

 

Steve awakes with the ache still present in his shoulder. He might even have a scar from this one, who knows. Thor is at the side of his bed, sleeping with one elbow holding his head up. Loki is in the doorway, sipping some tea. There’s another cup on the table next to Steve that he points to with a genuine smile. Even though Loki helped, he’s still somewhat in limbo, still a prisoner; Odin hasn’t responded about his punishment yet and they can’t afford to wait forever.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, taking a slow sip and coming fully into the room. He shuts the door behind him.

Steve shrugs, and it’s the worst decision of his life. He hisses between his teeth, squirming on the bed in pain as it passes. Thor groans, scrubbing his face roughly. He leans back in his chair, still in a deep sleep, his blond hair falling messily over his eyes.

Loki snorts, going around to the other side. He sits on the floor, his legs folded over each other. “I was afraid I might have gotten the leader of the Avengers killed. I don’t think I’d ever be forgiven for that.”

With a soft chuckle, Steve shakes his head. “Takes more than a supernatural sword to kill me.”

“As you’ve proven,” hums Loki, his eyes ruby-red and pointed like a cat’s. He peers over to Thor who’s started snoring. “What do you intend to do with me now?”

Steve sits up slowly, closing his eyes when a muscle twinges in his shoulder again. “I guess we’ll go to the Avengers tower. There seems to be a lot of people coming here. More than Charles expected even.”

“And what of Stark? Hawkeye? They both want me dead,” he says flatly.

His eyes betray the dry tone of voice though. There’s hopefulness, maybe even a hint of sadness. Regret, if Steve were feeling generous. He might truly want to prove that he can be good. Or it might all be an act; it’s hard to tell with people like Loki who have only tricks and lies to use as defence. Steve knows the reason, not that he agrees with it.

“We could try to sneak you in,” says Steve, teasing. “If that doesn’t work, well, I _am_ the leader. I’ll tell them you saved my life.”

Loki waves a hand, frowning. “I did no such –”

“You saved my life,”he says firmly. “I could have had my heart carved out if you hadn’t stepped in.” He bows his head, considering it all could have been over just like that, with some one-off mission that wouldn’t even impact the rest of humanity. It would have been a waste of Bucky’s sacrifice. “Thank you, really.”

In spite of the fiery red, or maybe _because_ of it, Loki’s gaze seems vulnerable. He sips his tea in silence, not replying to Steve’s gratitude.

Steve peers over at Thor, touching the top of his head gently; he doesn’t wake. “I’m gonna need your help with this one again,” he tells Loki.

Loki laughs, curling his legs beneath him, and looking all the more feline as he leans in. “It might be to our advantage to let him rest a short while longer. Only my mother ever dared wake him after four hours of sleep.”

 

*

 

The problem with the Avengers tower isn’t the hustle and bustle of people in the lower levels, the hectic schedules, the lack of personal rooms (only six + a guest room, in case of emergency life-saving duties) or even the possibility of death at a moment’s notice due to the building being so visible -- it’s Jarvis. He is a fantastic piece of technology, probably at the pinnacle of Tony’s inventions, but he’s too damn keen.

The moment Steve’s in the elevator - Loki hidden under a dark hoodie to be inconspicuous, Thor at his side, picking broccoli from their lunch out of his teeth –Jarvis announces: “ _Sir, we have an unexpected visitor. I believe it is the Asgardian criminal known as Loki. Should I activate emergency stop on the elevator? Steve Rogers and Thor Odinson appear to be accompanying him._ ”

If Steve swore like the people of this time, he would be doing that right now. Instead he moans, rubbing his forehead as he mutters, “Goddammit.”

Even taking the lord’s name in vain feels slightly bitter on his tongue. It’s a good kind of bitter, though, like the hard candies Natasha introduced him to last week. He wishes she hadn’t stayed behind in England right now; he could really use her help dealing with this twisted situation. She could even come up with solutions he would have never thought of in a million years. But right now she needs her personal time for some ‘research.’

Loki chuckles at his displeasure, flinging the hood off his dark hair. He rolls the sleeves up, the markings coming into view across his blue skin. “I suppose I don’t need to hide my identity any longer as I’ve been discovered.”

They wait to see if the elevator stops moving. It doesn’t. The ride is smooth, all the way up to their designated floor, just below the penthouse where Tony stays with Pepper. Thor hums, passing his fingers through his long strands. Steve shrugs a shoulder when their eyes meet. They exit, Loki behind them in case Tony shows up in an Iron Man suit, ready to blast him back to space.

Steve lets out a sigh of relief when there’s no one to greet them. There might be no one around. They might all be busy with solo missions or errands, vacation time if he’s lucky. God knows they all need some. But just in case, Steve calls out, “Hello? I’m back with Thor.”

“Hey there,” says Tony, rushing out of his private elevator, down the stairs and towards them. “Did Pepper give you all my messages? Why did it take so long for you to get back?”He punches Steve’s shoulder playfully. “By the way, I totally didn’t buy the whole ‘Loki kidnapped you’ thing because he wouldn’t be looking so apprehensive right now.”

Steve turns to see, and there’s a cool look on Loki’s face, as complacent as ever.

“What look?” he asks.

Thor glances over his shoulder, eyeing Loki as well. “I believe you are mistaken, Stark. Loki is known on Asgard to always mask his emotions. No one has seen him under duress besides my family and I.”

“And _me_ just now. I’m telling you guys, there’s something up with Loki. You shouldn’t trust him.”

At this, Steve has to step in. It’s not like him to argue with friends –Tony is his friend now, as much as it pains him to admit sometimes –but this sounds awfully like an uncalled for attack on the person who saved him. He keeps his word no matter what. He leans in, squaring his shoulders as much as he can. “Loki is our temporary prisoner until Odin contacts us. And I think you should hold your tongue because I wouldn’t be standing here right now if it wasn’t for him. He saved my life.”

Tony gapes, glancing between Steve and Loki. He briefly looks over at Thor, too. The dumbstruck look turns into a mischievous one; the kind that means trouble for Steve at least 99% of the time. When Tony gets this look, it usually ends with Steve blushing a furious shade of red and being forced to look at someone in an uncomfortably small amount of clothing.

As Steve is moving away, Tony has a glint in his eye that says _I think I know what you_ _’_ _re doing. And if you're doing what I think you_ _’_ _re doing, keep doing it; I think it_ _’_ _s a great idea_. To be honest, Steve has no clue what Tony thinks he’s doing, but it’s probably X-rated–which of course brings on that habitual red blush he was hoping to avoid.

Tony chuckles, slapping him on the arm with gusto. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”He does a salute and jogs back up to his own floor, a worrying skip to his step that wasn’t there earlier.

“I do not understand,” mutters Thor, his forehead creased with lines that make him look no older than thirty.

“Yeah, neither do I,” says Steve. “Anyway, Loki can take the guest room. That’s okay with you, right?” he asks them.

“As long as it holds a bed, I am more than satisfied,”says Loki agreeably. “I need a good bit of rest to recover my charm and magic.”

Steve can tell it’s serious as he walks away; his shoulders are less confident than normal, his gait’s slower and the indigo is back. Reluctantly, Steve sees some of Bucky in him. A man who’d rather make light of his aches than face them and the consequences. For all they know, Loki could be stuck in his natural Jotunn form. Not that it bothers Steve in the least; he actually prefers it. Thor watches as well, a tight pull to his brow that might reflect what Steve is thinking. Often, they share the same opinion of topics.

“Do you think he’ll be okay soon?”asks Steve, covering up a yawn in his shoulder.

Thor blinks a few times, as if coming back to the present. “I cannot say for certain. He is a skilled fighter, but perhaps he requires Asgardian treatments. However, they would not want to aid him after his punishable deeds.”Steve nods thoughtfully, a frown on his lips. Thor nudges him softly, saying, “Do not worry, Captain. I will watch over my brother. You require your rest now. It has been a trying period.”

Something in Thor’s smile always gives him hope. Whether it’s the crinkle at his temple, the youth that glimmers in his light eyes, Thor always has a smile at the ready for moments just like this when they’ve nearly succumbed to death again. It’s funny having to say ‘again’ when Bucky used to pummel bullies into tomorrow for just roughing Steve up back in the 40s.

The touch at his shoulder shakes him from his thoughts. Thor’s gaze seems concerned, a hint appreciative. A look he hasn’t worn many times, but that slips through at moments. When Steve’s recovering from a rough mission; when he tears a shirt suit in battle; when he held Mjolnir up for Thor to take – Thor gets this _look_.

“Rest,” he says, cupping Steve’s cheek. It’s so affectionate and gentle that Steve doesn’t think to be thrown off by it. “I will make us breakfast come morning.”

It’s only once Thor’s gone into his room, Steve back in his own, that he realizes the weight of that gesture. A touch to the shoulder or back is camaraderie; one that is around your waist is support or a close friendship; but that press of his warm hand to Steve’s cheek, his fingers nearly reaching his ear, says more than words.

Wasn’t it bad enough that he was defending a former murderer? Now he has to feel a tingle in his spine just remembering the firm, comfortable touch of Thor on his face? There are hundreds, no, _thousands_ of years between them. How could this work? He might be reading too deep into it. Maybe on Asgard it’s normal to cup your friends’ faces. Maybe it happens all the time to go from a revengeful terror to a life-saving refugee like Loki.

Maybe Steve needs to sleep this whole thing away and it won’t be so hard to swallow in the morning.

 

\---

 

Tony texts him _How was it? Don_ _’_ _t get mad, I_ _’_ _m just curious._ And Steve has no idea what that even pertains to. Knowing him, it’s most likely sexual –which isn’t helpful in the least because Steve spent at least an hour tossing and turning, trying not to imagine marked, blue skin and tussled blond hair. The worst part was how much he enjoyed picturing them alongside him, aside from in a sexual way. He can see Loki fighting in the Avengers with them, Thor proudly looking over at how much he’s changed. It was devastating to see Thor so broken up over his brother’s betrayal during the destruction of New York. At least this way Loki could turn over a new leaf and Thor could be happy for him.

But there are times when Thor looks at Loki and it’s not quite brotherly. Their bond is solid; they were raised together, but there’s also a bit of something else between them. Something about their competitive nature has to come from a deeper source; they want to outshine each other, but not quite for their parents’ praise. As much as Steve wants to end this train of thought, he’s followed it this far, he wants to know where it ends. If it were he and Bucky – closer than blood – it wouldn’t be difficult to guess. They liked competing, being in charge. It might be the same for them.

That makes him sit up in bed, not Thor’s rumble of: “Steven! Breakfast is prepared.”

If it wasn’t bad enough that he wanted them closer to him, now he knows they subconsciously want to be with each other –not him. He could be getting between them and their possibility of companionship, because what is he? He’s a super soldier, but he’s not a god. He won’t live thousands of years like they do. He’s ephemeral; a here-and-gone creature that is a blip in their lifetime.

The morning started so well and now he’s gloomy with thoughts of his own death. On the bright side, he could join Bucky in the afterlife, wherever he is. For a long time, he thought he’d die fighting a bully or from a bad winter, and Bucky would go on to get married and have kids, maybe name his son after him. Never in his wildest dreams could he see himself living this long, without his best pal, the one guy who’d known him before he was worth a second glance.

There must be something about romance that’s bittersweet because Steve’s moved from an anxious, bubbly feeling in his gut to wondering if his life will mean anything after he’s gone. It could just be related to Asgardians and their unnaturally long lives.

Steve can hear Thor’s footsteps before he barges into his room, carrying a plate of eggs and toast. His bright smile fades when he sees whatever Steve was trying to keep from showing on his face. Thor puts the food on Steve’s bedside, joining him on the bed. He touches his knee underneath the blanket.

“This is unlike you,” he starts, his expression suddenly soft and more than endearing. “Usually you are the first to rise and already in the shower by this hour.”

“I’m just feeling a bit--” He waves his hand around to demonstrate. “--from the travelling and all that,” Steve lies, rubbing at his nape. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine in a couple days.”

The look on Thor’s face doesn’t change. He leans forward, inspecting Steve’s expression, and he can’t help but flush red from the attention. It’s the first time Thor’s been this close to him, not counting the time he had to carry Steve because he broke his leg fighting an android Tony built.

Pointing a finger in his face, Thor raises his voice. “Do not lie to me, Steven. You are my Captain, and I respect you, but this I do not tolerate.”

“What are you—”

“Captain!” he cuts in. “Tell me why you are upset.” His gaze turns warm with worry, making it hard for Steve to look away and pretend like there’s nothing wrong. There’s so much wrong he doesn’t even know where to start.

“It might be better if I don’t say,” admits Steve, fisting into his blanket nervously. He’s found himself in another situation that Bucky would put him in –not letting a single lie slip past, worrying until his last drop of blood.

Thor groans, picking up the plate and putting it on Steve’s lap. “Eat. We will have words after you are done.” He storms out, a breath away from slamming the door behind him, Steve can tell.

 

\---

 

Let it be known that Steve is not a coward, even when it comes to facing an angry thundergod while every other Avenger is away. He’s on his own. He’s okay with that…probably. Things need to be aired out anyway, right? Too bad Jarvis is eavesdropping for Tony, so they don’t really have much privacy, only the illusion of it.

Thor is waiting in the kitchen, drinking from his Cookie Monster cup. He’s poured one for Steve, in the ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ mug that Clint got last Christmas; Steve loves it, despite the connotation. He takes a deep breath and sits across from Thor.

The severe look on Thor’s face makes Steve’s pulse shoot up to 200 in a flash. His chest hurts from the speed of his heart, banging a fierce drum solo. They sip their coffee in silence –that is, until Loki clears his throat from the doorway he’s leaning in.

“Am I interrupting?”he asks, a significant grin on his face. His skin is still blue, but a lighter shade; he’s already rested a bit.

Thor shakes his head. “No, you may join, brother.”

Loki tilts his head, raising an eyebrow at Thor. He crosses his arms, staying in his spot. Steve’s mouth goes dry at whatever Thor understands and he misses. Their wordless communication is something to envy; something he had with Bucky lifetimes ago.

Thor sighs after a stretch of silence. “Loki, please.”

Loki lifts his arms, placating. He takes a seat between Steve and Thor. No one says a thing. Thor continues to pierce Steve with a stare deeper than first impressions let on. Loki’s lips twitch up playfully as he glances between them. He waves a hand over the table and a cup appears in front of him, smoking hot. He sips it in silence. Steve almost wishes he didn’t have manners; that he slurped or made some kind of noise. The quiet is _killing_ him. Maybe that’s the point: to get him to crack under the pressure of not a single word uttered.

It’s certainly more effective than violence or threats.

Steve takes another sip, his eyes carefully averted. He holds his knee down as he starts bouncing it under the table; a clear tell that he’s losing this battle. Luckily, Thor is merciful.

He peers at Loki for a second, and then says to Steve, “If I am not mistaken, you have interest in Loki and I.”

It might not have been a good idea to take a sip of hot coffee right at that moment. It scalds the back of Steve’s throat, burning down his chest as it slides like molten lava to settle in his belly. He heals at least. If nothing else, he can heal. He’s coughing through his reply of, “What now?”

“Oh, Steve. It is as clear as daylight,” says Loki. “I understand your attraction to me. But my brother, I can’t quite comprehend.”

Thor growls a warning that Steve doesn’t quite catch over the tail-end of his coughing. Loki sighs, folding his hands on the table, waiting. Thor smiles at him, waiting as well. He must be dreaming. This can’t be happening. Thor knows he likes him; Loki knows he likes him. They aren’t mad, disgusted, or ready to pummel him. Not even eager to insult him and throw around words like ‘insect’, which Asgardians often do with regards to mortals. Truth be told, they look more than flattered.

“I –I’m not sure I get what this conversation is about,” stutters Steve, holding his cup between his palms, squeezing the ceramic so hard he hears it crack. He puts it down, and hides his hands underneath the table.

“We are offering to court you,” says Thor in his boisterous, matter-of-fact manner. He takes a long gulp of coffee, leaving Steve to splutter in disbelief.

Loki scoffs, patting Steve’s back. “I wouldn’t quite use the word ‘courting’ since it’s considered old fashioned on Midgard, brother. The term is ‘date’ here. Have you spent no time watching the media while you’ve been in this realm?”

Loki calling Thor ‘brother’ while he’s rubbing Steve’s back and talking about realms–all of that is unnecessary oil on the fire already burning through the part of his brain that still works. It sends him into another coughing fit which turns into nervous hiccups that stab into him. He hates today more and more.  


\---

 

Subtlety is not Thor’s strong point, not that anyone expects a god to be anything but overt. He seats Steve at the kitchen table with him, laying down the entire evolution of his feelings, so in-depth and specific that it’s a miracle Steve didn’t discover this beforehand. (But the most surprising part is how he managed to get them privacy to do this; even Tony isn’t in the tower.)

It may have helped that Steve was too oblivious and busy feeling inadequate to notice sooner. If ever at all. All he saw were the looks Thor kept throwing at Loki, a look he misinterpreted on multiple occasions. It wasn’t lust being fought against; it was determination to claim Steve before Loki had a chance to. “Claim” being the term Thor chose, of course.

“I’m not an object,”says Steve as soon as the word ‘claim’ hits the air. He needs that to be clear, above all else, because even if it’s easy enough to swoon for a thundergod with rippling muscles and a bright smile it doesn’t accord him any special liberties over Steve or anyone else. He’s always been stubborn, his own person, never a puppet or a trophy (which is why his Captain America tour ended so abruptly).

Loki looks absolutely elated by Steve’s attitude. His green eyes return just in time to sparkle like jade as he says, “I like you.” His voice is thick, gruffer than normal. He clears it. “Too bad my brother also shares my interest or I could have the saviour of this country all to myself.

The chair Thor’s on protests as he slides it back, taking Steve’s hand in his own. There’s no denying how dry his throat goes when Thor strokes his wrist, an obviously possessive display in front of his brother. One that hits its mark if the disgruntled noise Loki makes can be trusted.

It’s still not enough for Steve to succumb. “I’m no one’s to own. If neither of you understands this, well…” He pulls his hands away slowly.

Thor’s face crumbles; he immediately goes to his knees, holding Steve’s hands cradled in his own. “You are a valuable leader and a dear friend. I am sorry for my behaviour, Steven. I have waited so long for a chance to reveal my true feelings.”

“Oh, poor Odinson!” groans Loki, striding over to smack Thor’s hands away. “You were with Jane for quite some time. What of Miss Foster, hm? You’ve had her under your spell for longer than you’ve know our precious Captain.”

Thor growls, shoving at Loki until he’s pressed to the counter, their hips too close for Loki to step away. “Shut up! You of all should understand that it is not an easy task finding someone to accept you, and to be accepted by the ones you cherish. She will be happier with someone from her field, from this world.”

“You are indeed comical, Thor,” spits Loki. “How can anyone accept you? You’ve never once accepted me for the Jotunn that I am. You can’t even admit whose son I am! Who we hunted and slaughtered like cattle. My family, brethren, perhaps my entire bloodline!”

Steve knows he should step in and stop Loki before he casts a green fog over the room, sending them on another wild goose chase. On the other hand, he wants to show Loki that his trust is real. They need to work this out, and he wants to let them. He’s willing to risk losing a captive under his watch if it means proving his mind can be changed; he can forgive and forget when it matters.

Loki isn’t leaving; he’s tangled his long, delicate fingers in Thor’s hair and biting out, “Taste it, Thor. The traitorous Jotunn who sacrificed his father for the family he thought would always love him.” He kisses him with a rough press directly on Thor’s parted mouth.

Thor pants, pulling away with a growl. He gazes at Steve, his eyes wide and unfocused, while Loki says, “How does it taste? As bitter as I feel?”

“Like grief.” He casts his eyes down. “And regret,” he murmurs before leaving the kitchen.

Steve’s holding his breath, wondering when the shoe will drop; when Loki will vanish because he can’t handle this excess of emotion spurting out of him like fumes. The only thing that drops is Loki, down to his knees, holding his head in his hands.

Sometimes, Steve’s body does incredible things, moving at impossible speeds. Even before the serum, this used to happen and surprise him. In the blink of an eye, he kneels next to Loki, rubbing softly down his back, a frown on his face as Loki sobs quietly into his palms.

Loki doesn’t leave, nor move the touch away or shrug it off. When he’s done crying, he inclines his head gracefully, still polite, and hides himself behind the guest bedroom’s door.

A part of Steve expects Loki to be gone when he knocks in the morning, but only a small part.

 

*

 

The first thought through Steve’s mind is ‘what time is it?’a glance at his clock next to him tells him it’s nearly 6 in the morning. Not unusual for him to be up this early. The next thought, however, is: ‘why do my muscles feel so tight?’The serum is a wonder for bruises and cuts, even stab wounds and broken bones. He’s not tried bullet holes, but he figures that would heal up nicely too. For him to feel stiff and tight, wound like a coil ready to spring at the first touch, is odd. He can run miles and not break a sweat, but here he is –barely awake, the sun just creeping up through his shuttered blinds –and he’s breathing hard, his chest feeling restricted. _Tight_. Everything feels tight and hard to control.

When he opens his mouth to take in a breath, it’s shaky. It’s loud. It’s a moan, he realizes, flushing redder than his bitten lips. Steve rubs his eyes hard, forcing the sleep out as quick as he can, looking down at his chest and why everything feels so unlike the norm.

The dark hair tickles Steve’s abdomen, and he can’t help but moan out in surprise this time. Now that his brain is online, the suction and heat drag him in with prowess and hunger, and it goes offline again. Loki swirls his tongue and hums like a sexual deviant or toy (Steve’s been introduced to some thanks to Tony and his relentless tricks).

His grip is in the sheets as Loki slides off with a pop; his eyes gleam with delight, flecks of red rimming his irises. Steve wants to touch his mouth, so he does. He wants to cup his cheeks, so he does. He wants to taste what it’s like, let his tongue roam inside and draw out the flavour of himself. He looks into Loki’s shifting eyes, and how he bats them. His lips glistening wet with what he’s been doing for the past few minutes.

“Can I?” croaks Steve, his throat too dry.

Loki grins at him, fluttering his lashes. “Can you what?” He’s already moving forward, trying to get Steve’s length back in between his lips.

Steve stops him, holding his chin gently. “Can I _kiss_ you? I know I’m old fashioned for this era but I like to do the steps in order if I can help it.”

Two smiles break across Loki’s face: one falling away only to be replaced with a softer, more timid one. Steve can’t hold back anymore at that. He hopes that gentler smile means he’s pleased to be wanted because Steve has him now, above him, hands at his lean sides.

Loki moves in before he can, his mouth just as damp as it looks, a slick slide against his lips. He sucks at Steve’s bottom one, plumping it, bruising it, gnawing it between his teeth. Steve enjoys every second of it. His hips jump, nearly bucking Loki off the bed, which has them chuckling embarrassedly into each other’s neck. There’s a scent there; sweat and skin, sure, but something other. The otherness that Steve has always been drawn to with Thor, and now Loki. It’s a musk that can’t be covered, one he wouldn’t smell if it weren’t for the serum, but he needs it. His teeth are dragging red lines along Loki’s neck, digging into the creamy skin, scraping against his collarbones. He wishes there were callouses, freckles, darker skin. He wishes the hair was slightly lighter, shorter, not as silky.

Thor opens the door as Steve’s staring into Loki’s eyes, his breath coming out wet and raspy. He hasn’t lost his beauty, nor has Thor. He trusts them - together and apart –and he wants them both equally. But there’s someone he wants more. Someone he’s always wanted, before he knew what loving someone meant. Not a woman, but a person. Too bad that train passed long ago, and he fell from it.

Time goes on, even when you’re frozen in it, and Steve has to learn to let go. He has to decide once and for all: are they what he wants? Does he want to be alone forever? Sadly, the answer to both questions is _no_.He knows he can grow to love them –if they’ll have him, if they can share him without tearing each other apart. Loki must see something in Steve’s eyes because he sits up, straddling Steve, his hands carding through his hair. He touches his cheekbones, and Steve moves into it, closing his eyes.

Loki asks, “Are you all right? Do you want this?”

Steve can’t tell him: ‘I’m okay with having this because I can’t have what I really want.’ He nods, smiling softly. Natasha always says he’s a terrible liar; Loki probably sees this too. He continues stroking Steve’s face.

Thor is too far to notice the hesitation; he’s stripping out of his robe, joining them on the bed. His touch, amazingly, goes to Loki first. He pets his nape soothingly, presses a soft kiss to the jut of his jaw. Loki’s breath comes out uneven; he reaches for Steve’s hand and squeezes it.

It’s Thor’s turn to ask, “Is this all right?” His brows are creased with worry.

Bucky is gone. Time is gone. He has to move on with his life –Peggy has. She married and had children. She was happy. Now it’s Steve’s turn to do the same without clinging to a past he can’t retrace. He touches Thor’s bottom lip with each finger, Loki’s eyes on both of them.

“I’m okay. I want this,” breathes Steve, giving them the most honest smile he can muster. It doesn’t matter if tears are waiting to fall down his cheeks. They are here, now, and so is he. This is going to be his happiness.

Thor pushes Steve back against his pillow, covering him in delicate kisses. A feat considering how his chest rumbles every time Steve’s hand rubs against his erection accidentally. Loki, meanwhile, rubs Steve to full hardness –some of his excitement having left while he thought of Bucky –and then sinks back down between his thighs, sucking him in like paradise.

His hand moves with purpose to Thor’s thigh, cupping the length of him in his palm. He strokes, firm and tight, in the way he think he’d enjoy it. Thor moans louder than Steve expected; he’s a soon-to-be king who probably had orgies for all he knows. Loki grabs hold of Thor’s back when he begins to tip with the pleasure of it, and Steve whimpers as his vision shifts in and out of focus.

“Please–I,” he moans, closing his eyes. He finds Loki’s hair and tugs, startling a pleased noise out of him that has him sucking harder. Thor thrusts into Steve’s hand, panting into the crook of Loki’s neck. He whispers how beautiful Steve is, how close he is to coming. Loki moans when Steve’s hips jump, his hand disappearing into his silk robe.

Ten, nine, eight—

Steve counts, distracting himself. He doesn’t want to soil the inside of Loki’s mouth. He wants to kiss him when he comes, have Thor in his neck panting if he spills over his hand. He wants them close, closer, so close he can’t think of anything but them; so very far away from Bucky and that snowy day.

“Going –going to come,”Steve chokes out, fisting into Loki’s hair. He refuses to pull off, though. He fights against the hands trying to drag him up, and Thor’s eyes are screwed so tight he can’t see the frantic look across Steve’s face. Neither of them does. Steve comes, burying his face into Thor’s blond hair, still stroking him. He bites down on the name that nearly falls from his lips. Moments later, with Thor still thrusting into Steve’s grip, he bursts like fireworks all over his chest and stomach with Loki at the perfect angle to see it.

They collapse like children in Steve’s bed; Loki’s kind enough to zap a tissue and wipe them all off. He takes the middle, whispering in Thor’s ear as Steve watches the ceiling. He wishes it could open up, let through a gust of wind, and suck him through. It’s harder letting go of Bucky than anything else that’s ever happened. But maybe Thor, Loki, can help him through it. They’ve had millenniums to face loss as warriors; if anyone can overcome grief it’s them.

Thor falls asleep first, Loki leaning his head on his shoulder. Steve covers them in his blanket, careful not to give them a start. They seem to be getting along better, which is good. Mainly. Minus the part where they’ve kind of orbited to each other and forgotten about him. Maybe he was right about the attraction they were fighting. It doesn’t really matter though, does it?

With one arm covering his eyes, and one tucked in his blanket, Steve counts down from a hundred. There’s nothing to do but sleep now. If he leaves, they might wake up. If he goes and they don’t wake up, they might be worried this was a mistake. It’s not; he wanted it. He chose to go through with it. There’s just so much going on, so many questions plaguing him.

 

*

 

Hours later, Thor and Loki still snoring in an embrace, Steve pads his way to the kitchen for water and finds a note from Natasha on the fridge. She used the shield replica magnet that she bought him a year ago.

 

_I found the Winter Solder._

_You might want to see the pictures of him._

_Sorry I couldn_ _’_ _t tell you before I left._

_Didn_ _’_ _t want to come up empty and disappoint you._

_Take a deep breath before you open the envelope I left next to your uniform._

 

It feels like there’s a pause in her writing; Steve wonders how he’s come to know her this well when she often struggles to know herself.

 

_I_ _’_ _m here for you, Steve._

Nothing prepares him for the man in the photos.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated if you have a moment. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] There's A Seat Here Alongside Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231469) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)
  * [Samsara](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573048) by [Ebyru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru)




End file.
